Truth Found in Fire
by IronSparrow99
Summary: After the massive upheaval that took place during her third year at Hogwarts, Orissa is looking forward to a normal year. Fourth year, however, will be just the opposite: there are new people in town. Someone's trying to kill Harry, again. New secrets will be revealed. New dangers will be faced. A new threat is falling over the wizarding world, whether they're ready or not.
1. Chapter 1

_Dear Harry,_

 _Before you ask, I'm still safe, healthy, and happy. Happier than I ever was with Vermin and Mrs. Horse Lady – not that that's much of a contest, of course._

 _And no, I will not tell you where I am. Just trust me._

 _Did you get Ron's letter about the World Cup? It sounds exciting! I got one too, though I really can't tell you how his owl found me. I'll be leaving for the Burrow soon, so I'll see you there. Bring my things, will you?_

 _Oh, and I'm sorry to hear about your "diet". Honestly, it's not like anything short of starvation is even going to make a dent in that baby whale you call a cousin. Did you like the food I sent? I-_

A loud pop makes me startle, cursing softly as the quill in my hand twitched and sent ink everywhere.

I sigh and turn to face the source of the noise: an elderly, cross house-elf that went by Kreacher and hated my guts. "Yes?"

"Master would like to know if young Mistress is finished packing," the elf croaks. "He is waiting in the study when she is ready."

"Tell him I'll be there in a minute," I tell him. "I just need to do one last check. Thank you, Kreacher."

"Kreacher does not accept thanks from Mudblood-loving scum," he hisses before giving a shallow bow before disappearing with another pop.

I roll my eyes and turn back to the letter in front of me on my desk.

 _I made sure to make what you like. I hope the Dursleys aren't being_ _complete_ _monsters to you._

 _Love,_

 _Ori_

I finish my name with a flick of the quill, putting in away and picking up my wand, muttering a spell to vanish the ink smudges before rolling up the parchment and walking over to the window.

I approach my black-and-grey Spectacled Owl, Tyche, and hold out the scroll. "Can you deliver this to Harry, girl? And then fly to the Weasley's when you're done."

She gives me an indignant hoot, as if offended that I even had to ask, before allowing me to attach the letter to her leg and flying off into the late-afternoon sun.

I watch her go before turning back to my bedroom, the ornate silver ring on my right hand glinting in the light.

My name was Orissa Andromeda Black, heiress to The Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, along with a bunch of other titles I would seldom use. More importantly, Harry Potter – yes, the Boy-Who-Lived – was my best friend and godbrother, along with Ron and Hermione.

I was about to enter my fourth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, but that wasn't for a few more days. Until then, I lived at 12 Grimmauld Place, in London, with my father.

Who was a fugitive at the moment, but not really. It was a long story.

"Rissy!" A voice outside my door tears me out of my thoughts. "Come on, the Weasley's are expecting you!"

"Coming!" I call, taking one last look around the room.

The room itself had come a long way from two months ago, when I had moved in. Back then it had been a Pure-Blood supremacist's wet dream – Slytherin green walls, Voldemort shrine, huge family crest.

Now, though, it was really quite homely, with its cranberry red walls, with lighter cream accents and matching sheets. My bed was pushed into the corner farthest from the door, with a red and gold Gryffindor banner hanging proudly above the headboard.

Across from the bed, there was a desk with a few drawers and pictures pinned to a board hanging above it: pictures of me and Harry, the Gryffindor Quidditch team, me and Fred and George, and me and Dad.

The room also had a small but very comfy loveseat, with velvety cushions in cream; a wardrobe, on top of which rested an owl perch and a stuffed dog.

All in all, I muse as I grab my coat and wand, I'd really made it my own in the past two months. The previous inhabitant wouldn't even recognize it.

I step out of the room, shutting the door behind me.

"Finally," a voice sighs behind me. "The Weasley's are expecting you soon. What got you distracted?"

"Sorry, Dad," I apologize, turning to face him. "I was just thinking about my room."

"It's the pinnacle of my designing experience," my dad, Sirius Black, jokes, ruffling my hair before ushering me down the stairs and into the bedroom on the right.

This was unofficially the master bedroom and where Dad slept, even though the _actual_ master bedroom was next door and contained a wanted hippogriff that I had become quite friendly with since the beginning of the summer.

The main reason I was in here, however, was the fireplace. I didn't have my own – apparently, Dad didn't trust me with fire, and I didn't blame him – but Floo travel was really the only way to get to the Burrow, since Dad couldn't come, with him being on the run and all, and I couldn't Apparate.

"Are you sure you can't come?" I ask my father sadly. "Not even as Padfoot?"

He shakes his head, his dove gray eyes – identical to my own – softening. "A big black dog that looks just like the Grim would attract too much attention among wizards. I'm sorry, pup."

I sigh, but nod – part of living with a wanted man meant getting groceries by owl order, not disclosing my location at any time, and really never being seen in public.

An upside was that I could do all the magic I wanted, despite what Hogwarts said, because of the heavy wards surrounding the property, but that was irrelevant at the moment.

"Hey," Dad calls, tapping my chin until I look up at him. "You'll be alright. It's only one week until school starts, and then you'll have Quidditch and pranks and classes to focus on. I'll try to write, okay?"

"Alright," I agree.

"Now give me a smile."

I comply, giving him my usual bright and vaguely mischievous grin.

"That's my girl." Dad pulls me into a quick hug before nudging me towards the fireplace. "In you get."

I step into the fireplace, grabbing a pinch of Floo Powder and giving him a little wave before throwing the powder down and shouting, "The Burrow!"

The world disappears in a dizzying flash of green, only to reappear a few moments later. I stumble a few feet forward, coughing on soot as I flail wildly.

An arm loops around my waist, and a hand grabs the back of my shirt. "Easy there, Orissa. Don't want to hack up a lung, do you?"

I finally regain my breath and straighten up, finding the voice to belong to Arthur Weasley. "Thanks, Mr. Weasley. I could never get the hang of Floo."

"It's a bit of an acquired taste," the Weasley patriarch agrees. "Here, let me get you cleaned up."

I hold still as he cleans up the soot staining my sweater and jeans and skin, the cleaning leaving my ring gleaming.

Mr. Weasley freezes when he sees it, his face quickly paling. "Orissa-"

Whatever he was about to say was interrupted by Mrs. Weasley, entering the living room from the kitchen. "Arthur, dear, did you hear the Floo – oh, Orissa, dear!"

I gratefully accept one of her bone-crushing hugs, putting Mr. Weasley's odd behavior out of my mind. "Hello, Mrs. Weasley. Good to see you again."

"Oh, you too, dear! Tell me, how have you been? I haven't heard from you in a while. Ron told me about you and Black last year – you poor thing, it must be awful having him hanging over your head."

 _Oh, if only you knew_ , I think. "I'm alright, really. I've had time to get used to it," I tell her, and that was only a half-lie – I'd had time to get used to the 'father' part, not the 'mass-murderer' part.

"That's good, dear." She smiles at me. "Now, the boys and Ginny are in their rooms, if you want to go visit. Arthur, Fred, and George are going to be picking Harry up in a little while, and dinner will be after he's arrived."

"Alright," I nod, thanking her again before jogging up the stairs, going two flights up and knocking on the twins' door, smirking at the scorch marks marring the wood.

A muffled, but no doubt synchronized, shout of "Coming!" sounds just before twin pokes his head around the door – Fred, judging by the slightly darker stripe of freckles on his nose. "Blackie!"

"Don't _call_ me that, Fred," I sigh exasperatedly, but with no real malice to back up the words.

"I'm not Fred, I'm George!" he protests. He pushes open the door the rest of the way and points at his brother, who had looked up from a piece of parchment at the commotion. "He's Fred! Honestly, you call yourself our friend."

"I'm not falling for that," I laugh. "It got old _years_ ago, didn't you hear?"

"Bummer, that," George – his freckles were lighter and more scattered – sighs. "We must've missed the news." He rolls up whatever he was looking at and stashes it in his desk, turning to face the center of the room.

The twins' room was a mirror image of itself: two identical twin beds, one against each wall. Two identical writing desks, cluttered with prank ideas and letters alike, pushed to face opposite walls. Two old dressers shoved into the lower left and right corners of the room.

The floor space was a mess, as was typical of a room shared by two teenage boys. Various pranking materials were laying about, on the floor and the beds alike. There was even a cauldron wedged in a corner, with vials of various ingredients on a shelf nearby.

The center of the room was left open, and that was where the twins gathered now. "C'mere, Blackie."

I make my way over to them. "What's the latest and greatest?"

"This." Fred brandishes a small bag, shaking two small objects out onto his palm. "Take a look."

I lean forward slightly, peering at his palm. He's holding two sweets that look a bit like lavender taffy wrapped in wax paper.

But I've known the twins long enough to know things are never what they seem.

"What are they?" I ask, half curious and half suspicious.

"Ton-Tongue Toffees," George explains, offering me one. I take it, turning it over in my hands as he presents the idea. "When the victim chews, their tongue grows until...well, we haven't set an outer limit yet, but the effects can be reversed by a spell. Thoughts?"

I lean against the nearest bedpost, rolling the sleeves of my sweater up. "It sounds amazing, but have you tested it yet?"

Fred and George share an unreadable look. "Not yet. But we will. Say, isn't Harry's cousin on a diet?"

I smile – a toothy, slightly dark grin that guaranteed trouble. "Yes, but that's irrelevant, isn't it?"

"Of course," they chorus. "Now, can you look at-"

"-these trick wands?"

"We seem to have hit a stumbling point."

"Alright," I agree. "Just..." I trail off as thumping sounds outside their door, and I quickly recognize the sound of footsteps.

The door is flung open with a violent amount of force, and I spin to see Ron standing in the doorway. "Ori?"

"No, it's Dumbledore," I deadpan.

He rolls his eyes and walks up to me, trying to look nonchalant but failing to hide the concern in his eyes as he looks me up and down. "Where've you been, you prat?! You had Harry worried out of his mind."

I give him a small grin, holding up a hand to stall the twins' protest – anger was how Ron dealt with conflict. Maybe it wasn't the healthiest of methods, but I wasn't one to talk.

"Here and there," I say with a shrug, stuffing my hands in the pockets of my jeans. "Mostly there. I can't really say much more. But tell _Harry_ I'm fine," I add with a significant glance at Ron, who suddenly looks a bit less concerned.

 _Harry, my foot._

He steps forward, almost as if to give me a hug, but then hesitates. He seems to backtrack and holds out a hand, but then hesitates _again_.

I roll my eyes, ending his suffering by giving him a quick hug. "I'd ruffle your hair, but I can't reach."

"It's not _my_ fault you're still short."

"No, you're just freakishly tall," I quip. "Did you stop by just to say hi?"

"No, actually. Mum and Dad are looking for you…" he shrugs. "No clue why."

I grimace – adults wanting to "talk" never went well, and I quickly went over everything I could've done to incur the wrath of Molly Weasley, hearing the twins whisper to each other as they do the same.

Eventually I sigh. "Best get going, then." I nod at the twins, who had turned back to the Ton-Tongue Toffees. "Good luck."

With that, I leave their room, bounding down the stairs and into the kitchen, where I find Mr. and Mrs. Weasley seated at the table, along with another redhead that I didn't recognize. "Um, Ron said you wanted to see me?"

"Oh!" Mrs. Weasley looks up. "Yes, dear. Would you like some tea?"

"Er – sure," I answer, still cautious as I took a seat at the table. I watch the Weasley matriarch bustle around the kitchen for a moment before Mr. Weasley catches my attention.

"Orissa, this is William, my oldest son," he introduces. "William, this is Orissa…Orissa Black."

"I know," he nods, holding out a hand. "Heir Black."

I blink at the use of my formal title, which I hadn't honestly heard used yet. "Heiress, actually," I correct quietly, shaking his hand firmly. "Heir Weasley. Please, call me Orissa."

"Bill," he requests in turn.

I turn to Mr. Weasley as his wife sets out the tea. "You know, then."

"Your ring is a bit telling," he admits. "Plus, as I'm sure you know, House Weasley is an old family, if not a rich one."

I nod. I knew, alright. Most of my summer had been spent being tutored on what I needed to know to be a successful heiress, which included not only the history of my own family, but also twenty-seven others, as well as legal proceedings, as the Ancient Houses were part of the Wizengamot, or judicial body at the Ministry.

I dip my head respectfully. "Lord Weasley."

"No, none of that, now," he brushes me off. "We aren't in court, and I don't expect you to treat me any differently than you would have a few months ago. What I'm interested in is _how_ you got the ring."

I stop, one hand in the process of reaching for my tea. "What do you mean?"

"The only way for a successor to be appointed is by the Head of House directly," he points out. "Which means that, at some point between June and now, you've been in contact with Black – Sirius, I mean."

I blink slowly, purposely stalling as I take a sip of my tea. "I don't really know what to tell you."

"Tell me you know where he is," he suggests.

I shrug – because, when you looked at it, I had no clue where Dad was at this exact moment. He could be anywhere in Grimmauld Place – which was a big house – or really anywhere in the world; yes, he was supposed to stay home, but I had inherited his distaste for rules.

And his fondness for loopholes, apparently.

"Really. No clue," I tell Mr. Weasley, adopting the most serious expression I could.

He saw right through it, though, and really, I should've seen this coming from the man that raised Fred and George. Anything he was about to say, however, was cut off by his son.

"No, leave it, Dad." He gives me an amused look. "She's just like the twins. You won't get anywhere."

Arthur looks at his eldest child, and they seem to have a silent conversation before the older Weasley sighs. "Very well. If you'll excuse me, I need to go collect the twins and pick up Harry. Bill, Orissa."

I wait until he's out of earshot before turning to Bill. "Thanks."

"No problem," he says with an easy smile. "I'd do the same if I were you. And you wouldn't give a straight answer if we asked all day."

"Guilty," I shrug, leaning back in the chair. "Did your dad say he was going to take the twins to Harry's?"

"Yes. Why?"

"No reason," I grin. "Just wondering."

"Uh-huh, and I'm the Queen," he snorts, but we're interrupted by a whoosh of air from the living room. "That'll be them now. I'll go tell Mum."

I wait for him to leave before letting out a sigh of relief – one of my secrets was safe… for now, at least.

Now I just had to explain myself to one Harry J. Potter.

This wasn't going to a fun conversation.


	2. Chapter 2

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The first thing I notice about Harry is that he's had a growth spurt. When I last left him in early July, we were the same height; now, barely two months later, he towered over me by a good four or five inches.

Other than that, his hair was longer, but not much else had changed – he was still the scrawny, knobby-kneed, lightning-scarred boy I'd left behind on Privet Drive.

And he was currently staring at me with no small amount of relief. "Ori? Is that you?"

"Why is everyone asking that?" I ask with an exasperated eye-roll. "Have I grown a second head? Or maybe purple spots?"

Harry just shakes his head and laughs, stepping forward to wrap me in a tight hug. "Don't leave me again. I had no idea where you were, or what you were doing, or if you were even alive…"

"I'm sorry," I sigh, wrapping my arms around his waist. "I couldn't really help it. But I swear I was safe the entire time."

"Where were you?"

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you," I tell him with a straight face as I back out of the hug. "Really."

He sighs and nods resignedly. "I brought your things, by the way." He waves over towards his trunk, and I just now realize that there's two trunks there and not one.

"Thanks." I give my old trunk a once-over, nodding as I find it untampered with. "I'll have to buy a new one."

I straighten up and lead Harry into the kitchen. "Come on, dinner should be ready soon."

But as soon as we come into the kitchen, we find not a calm family sitting around the kitchen table, but instead a scene of chaos: Mrs. Weasley is ranting at Fred, George, and Arthur alike, waving a wooden spoon menacingly.

Harry and I hang back at the edge of the room, and I duck around the center of the noise to sidle up to Ginny. "What happened?"

"Apparently Fred and George pranked Harry's cousin with a sweet that made his tongue grow, Dad had to reverse it with magic," she whispers. "Mum's mad because they somehow knew he was on a diet and that he would take the candy, and Dad had to use magic in front of Muggles. Personally, I think it was brilliant."

"You're welcome," I murmur.

She turns to give me an awed look. "You-?"

"Shh!" I cover her mouth with a hand but nod anyway. "Yes, I helped with the candies. But only for the past hour or so, so don't drag me into this."

She nods, still wide-eyed, and I remove my hand, turning back to the main scene.

"-cleaning the attic, both of you, until you go back to school!" Mrs. Weasley finishes. She takes a deep breath and blinks, looking startled, as if she'd just remember that the rest of us were there. "Apologies, everyone. Go on, take a seat, supper's ready."

I quietly sit down next to the twins, subtly passing them each a sausage from my plate as a silent 'thank you.'

As we all sit around the table, chatter mainly revolves around the Quidditch World Cup.

"My money's on Bulgaria," Ron mutters around a mouthful of food, swallowing at his mother's scolding. "I mean, have you seen Krum fly? He's brilliant! There's no one else like him in the world!"

"Uh-oh, someone's got a crush!" I tease. " _Krum, oh Krum, you have a wonderful-_ "

"Shut it," he scowls. "I'm just appreciating talent, s'all."

"'Talent,'" I agree with finger quotes. "Yeah, sure."

He bristles at the comment, but Mr. Weasley puts a hand on his shoulder. "Settle down, everyone."

"Sorry, Dad," he grouses, and I silently return to my food.

Conversation returns to the match itself, with Ron excitedly telling us about everything from equipment to team statistics. I could hear Fred and George mentioning betting on the match, which I would definitely be getting in on.

Hermione and Percy were talking about the latter's new job at the Ministry, in the Department of International Magic Cooperation, under someone named Bartemius Crouch.

Whatever floated their boat, I guess.

Dinner is finished, dessert is eaten, and the bedrooms are divided among us. Harry was rooming with Ron, and I with Ginny; thankfully, Hermione would be showing up in the morning, so we wouldn't have to be squeezed three to a room.

Ginny's room, however, was possibly the nicest I'd seen in the Burrow thus far; it was open, airy, and covered with Holyhead Harpies posters. Her walls and bedsheets were a light lavender color, the complete opposite from Ron's violently orange theme. She even had a window overlooking the orchard.

"I got the last room in the house," Ginny explains. "It's a bit small, but-"

"It's my new favorite bedroom in this house," I announce, going over to the cot that had been set up for me. "Who're you betting on tomorrow?"

"Ireland, of course! Ron's the only one that's rooting for the red and black, and only because they have Krum. Ireland's got Troy, Mullet, and Moran, and you won't find a better Chaser team anywhere."

"Well, both teams are flying Firebolts, that would even the field a bit…"

We debate back and forth until Mrs. Weasley calls for lights out, and I wrap myself in the blankets and try to get as much sleep as I can.

.

The next morning comes entirely too early.

"Ori…Ori, wake up. 'Rissa, come on."

"Nooo," I moan, pulling the covers over my face. "Five more minutes."

"Orissa, come on, you have to get dressed. We're going to the World Cup, remember?"

"Fine," I groan, poking my head out of my cocoon and blinking sleepily at the person that had woken me. "Hermione? When did you get here?"

"Just a few minutes ago," she says while yanking my covers off. "You need to go get dressed."

"What time is it?" I ask tiredly as I slide out of bed.

"Five in the morning. The sun will be rising in about an hour."

I groan, rubbing my eyes as I grab the clothes I had set out and shuffling off to the bathroom while Hermione moves on to Ginny.

I quickly change out of my pajamas and into an emerald green sweater and a dark pair of jeans, along with a pair of sneakers I had nagged Bill into charming to match my sweater.

I brush my teeth, comb my hair into a semi-decent mess, and walk back into the bedroom to find Ginny half-asleep and dressed, and Hermione somehow wide awake, chattering about Switzerland and the tour she and her parents had taken of Tourbillon Castle.

"What did you do over summer, Ori?" she asks curiously. "Your letters didn't say much."

"Not much," I shrugged. "The highlight was coming here."

"And almost killing Harry's cousin," Ginny pipes up.

"I did _not_ ," I argue. "That was your brothers' fault."

She harrumphs at me, but then a smirks spreads over her face. "Say, speaking of Harry and my brothers, want to go wake them up?"

I grin. "I like the way you think, Miss Weasley."

Hermione looks between the two of us before throwing her hands up in exasperation. "Fine! Just hurry, alright? We need to be out of the house by quarter till, at the latest."

"Yes, _Mum_ ," I drawl before leaving the room, Ginny hot on my heels. I enter the bathroom across the hall, grabbing a cup and filling it with the coldest water I could. Catching on to what I was doing, Ginny does the same, and we make our way up the stairs.

The trip up the five flights of slightly rickety stairs was a slow one, both because we were trying to be quiet and trying not to spill any water, but Ginny and I eventually stop in front of Ron's bedroom door. I quietly turn the handle, slipping inside without a sound and approaching Harry's bed.

Something's not right, though; Harry was twisting and turning, mutter something over and over. I carefully set down the cup on the nightstand, edging closer to hear the words.

" _No…please…don't…no! No! NO!"_

He was having a nightmare, I quickly realize. And people having nightmares needed to be woken up. So I just decide to follow my original plan: I grab the cup and quickly turn it over onto Harry's head.

Harry jolts awake with a scream, grabbing his glasses as his eyes dart around the room, looking for any sign of danger. His eyes eventually land on me. "Ori, why am I wet?"

I drop the cup and kick it under the bed, giving him my best 'who, me?' expression. "I have _absolutely_ no idea."

"Don't lie."

"Uh-uh. Nope. Not lying."

He narrows his eyes at me but sighs. "Well, thanks for waking me up, anyhow."

"Bad dream?" I ask sympathetically.

He shrugs and runs a hand through his already messy bedhead. "I dunno. I've been getting these weird dreams lately."

"What about?"

He suddenly tenses up, dropping his eyes to his lap. "Mostly it's Voldemort murdering people. It was a Muggle, this time."

"Oh," I sigh, closing my eyes. I reach out a hand to ruffle Harry's hair affectionately. "Well, Quidditch should take your mind off it. Go get dressed. Hermione will murder me if you and that sleepyhead," I wave at Ron, who was dripping wet and still trying to go back to sleep, "aren't downstairs in ten minutes."

"Alright," Harry yawns. "I'll get going."

"Great," I nod and leave the room, yanking Ron's covers off as I passed by and ignoring his howls of indignation.

I arrive in the kitchen to be greeted by a very busy scene: Mrs. Weasley was practically shoving food down everyone's throats, while Mr. Weasley, Bill, and another stocky redhead – Charlie, maybe? – made sure everything was packed. Fred and George were tucked into a corner, heads bent together as they carried on an inaudible conversation. Hermione and Percy were busy discussing the stadium itself, and the anti-Muggle charms used to hide it.

I quickly accept a plate and scarf down a slice of toast and jam before swiping one of Fred and George's jar of face paint and using it to draw green lines under my eyes and a shamrock on my cheek.

"What about you, Ori?" George asks.

I blink and look at him. "Sorry, what?"

"Gambling! What's your wager on the match?" he asks eagerly.

"Hmm," I lean back in my chair, considering. "Well, as much as I hate to admit it, Bulgaria does have a better Seeker, but Ireland makes up for it in Chasers, so…fifty Galleons, tie game."

"Okay…" he jots something down on a piece of parchment, and I silently wonder if Dad will be mad that I'm gambling actual money.

Everyone is eventually gathered in the kitchen, half of us looking like sleep-deprived zombies, and Mr. Weasley leads us out.

We set a good pace over the Devon countryside, even if I do have to essentially drag Harry, he's so tired. Personally, I'm thanking Merlin for Oliver Wood's training regimens, because I've barely broken a sweat jogging uphill in August.

Mr. Weasley stops us under a tree, giving those who weren't on the Gryffindor Quidditch team a chance to catch their breath.

I trot up to the Weasley patriarch. "Why are we stopped?"

"We're waiting for some guests," he explains. "They should be here any moment…" he trails off just in time for me to hear feet hit the ground behind me.

I startle, jumping about a foot in the air. I whirl around to face a boy with wavy brown hair, mysterious gray eyes, and a chiseled jaw.

I quickly recognize him as Cedric Diggory: Hufflepuff Seeker, Quidditch Captain, and "Hufflepuff Hottie", or so he was known around the castle. Personally, I thought he was attractive, sure, but a bit too serious for my tastes.

I told out a hand. "Diggory. Good to see you."

"Black." He gives my hand a firm shake, shifting the backpack on his back. "You as well."

"Cedric!" Another man calls. "Making friends, are we?"

"Yes, Dad," Cedric responds, moving over towards his father. "This is Orissa Black."

"Ah, yes!" The man nods. "The Black child, I remember. My son won a game against you, you know. Not so high and mighty now, are you?"

I clamp my mouth shut and stick a smile on my face, breathing in and out of my nose. Apparently, I was a) "the Black child" now, and b) high and mighty. "Not at all, sir."

"And Harry Potter! My boy will go down in history as the boy that beat Harry Potter-"

"Only in Quidditch, Dad," Cedric corrects.

This only causes Mr. Diggory to go off into another bout of boasting about his son's achievements, and I duck behind Harry and make my way to the older Weasley boys and making sure I stayed as close to them as possible.

Mr. Weasley eventually manages to quiet Diggory's dad – who was named Amos – and drag us all up a massive hill that was topped with a single dirty old boot.

I frown at it. " _That's_ our Portkey?"

"Yes," Mr. Weasley nods. "What were you expecting?"

I ponder this for a moment before shrugging, because I really didn't know.

"Alright, everyone, gather 'round," he calls. "Come on, now, hurry up. Touch the boot."

I quickly make my way forward, feeling people press behind and around me as we all struggle to keep contact with the old leather shoe.

Harry isn't touching it yet, just staring confusedly. "Wait, what?"

"Harry, come on!" I shout.

"I don't-"

"Fifteen seconds!" Mr. Weasley shouts.

I reach out with the hand that wasn't on the boot and grab the material of Harry's shirt, yanking him forward and pinning one of his hands to the leather.

"Three…two…one… _hold on_ …"

There's a nauseating jolt in my stomach as the world disappears in a vortex of color, and I close my eyes to battle my rising nausea.

"Let go!"

" _What?!"_

"Let _go_!"

I gulp nervously and release my hold on the boot, flying backward and hitting something hard with a yelp of shock.

I let out a soft groan as my head finally stops spinning, and I crack open an eye to see…sky?

I open my eyes fully, sitting up to look at the sign above a bustling campground of wizards:

 _WELCOME TO THE 1994 QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP!_

The World Cup.

We were here.


	3. Chapter 3

I scramble to my feet, quickly brushing the dirt and grass off my clothes and going around to help the others up. Harry, Ron, Ginny, Hermione, Fred and George had all fallen when the Portkey stopped, but Bill, Charlie, Mr. Weasley and the Diggorys somehow all managed to stay standing, a fact that I was _extremely_ jealous of.

Once everyone was sorted, we bid goodbye to the Diggory's – thank _Merlin_ – and made our way over to the sign-in area.

"Morning!" Mr. Weasley chirps to the registrar, way too cheerful for this early in the morning.

"Morning," a very Muggle looking man responds. He looks a bit confused, but that was a fairly normal reaction when confronted with Arthur Weasley for the first time. "Who're you?"

"Ah, Weasley…booked two tents a few nights ago?"

The Muggle checks a piece of paper in his hands. "Yep, here you are. That'll be thirty-two pounds, please."

Mr. Weasley pulls a wad of paper notes out of his pocket, staring at them dumbly for a moment before looking around in bewilderment. "Um, Hermione, can you-"

I step forward and hold out my hand instead, taking the wad and counting out the right amount, handing the Muggle a twenty, a ten, and two singles, handing the rest back to Mr. Weasley.

The Muggle accepts the money, giving us a long look. "You foreign?"

"What?"

"You're not the first person that's had trouble with the money today. A few moments ago, a woman tried to pay me with coins the size of hubcaps, she did…"

"Did she, now?" Mr. Weasley replies anxiously, sounding like he didn't have a clue what to do. I didn't blame him.

"Yes," the Muggle nods, a faraway look entering his eyes. "There are so many people here…why, I saw a bloke in a poncho and kilt. It's like a rally…one giant party…"

Suddenly, a business-like wizard pops out of nowhere and points his wand at the Muggle. " _Obliviate!"_

The man's eyes glaze over momentarily before he pleasantly says, "Have a good day," and walks off to help the next group.

"Terribly sorry about that," the wizard – he was wearing a Muggle business suit but carried the air of importance that all Ministry officials did – apologizes. "We'd get a wizard, but with security concerns and all…"

Next to me, Hermione nods. "It must be a nightmare, having this much magic in one place."

The wizard nods, as if pleased that someone finally understood. "It is. Now, here's a map of the campsite. Enjoy."

Using the map, we find our way to a little spot on the very edge of some dense woods, marked with a little sign that read _WEEZLEY._

"Here we are!" Mr. Weasley announces, handing Bill a large bag and Hermione a slightly smaller one. "Now, does anyone know how to set up a tent…without magic?"

Hermione immediately nods, taking our bag, presumably a collapsed tent, and laying it down on the ground, opening the bag and beginning to unfold the canvas.

"Look at you, a regular Girl Scout," I tease while making sure we had enough tent pegs.

"Yes, actually," Hermione admits shyly. "My parents wanted me to socialize more. Did the Dursleys ever take you camping?"

"No," I scoff. "Hated me too much."

That kind of kills the conversation, and from then on we work in silence, with Hermione unfolding the canvas and constructing the skeleton while I secured the tent to the ground and Ginny made sure the ground was clear beneath us.

"It's kind of small," I remark once it's up. "Will we be able to fit?"

"If the boys can fit in theirs, we should do fine," Hermione points out, and she was right – the male tent had to hold ten people, and it was only slightly larger than ours.

"We'll be fine," Ginny assures us, pushing the tent flap aside and walking in. "Look."

I follow her in and stop, feeling my jaw drop.

We were standing inside what looked like a small apartment with four rooms: a kitchenette, complete with stove and the wizarding equivalent of a fridge; a bathroom, and a bedroom with two sets of bunkbeds.

"There are times when magic never ceases to amaze me," I mutter quietly, sitting down on a nearby stool.

"I know," Hermione agrees, just as quietly.

We explore the tent for a few more minutes, picking bunks and putting our bags away before Ron pokes his head in.

"Hey, guys, we're going to – huh, it doesn't smell like cats in here."

"…what?"

"Nothing. Anyway, Harry and I are gonna go collect some water, do you wanna come explore the campsite?"

I look around at Hermione and Ginny, who both nod.

"Sounds good," I tell the youngest Weasley boy, leading the way out of the tent and onto the bustling campground.

Apparently, people had camped here overnight, as people were just starting to wake up – children, of course, were the earliest risers, allowing me a look at the youngest witches and wizards I'd ever seen.

At one point, we pass a huge tent with a young boy sitting it the grass, merrily poking at a slug in the grass, making it grow to the size of a salami.

A woman who had to be the boy's mother storms out of the tent. "Kevin! How many times do I have to tell you, don't – augh!"

She'd stepped on the massive slug, which had burst and covered everything within a three-foot radius in slime.

Her scolding follows us as we walk away, and I burst into quiet giggles.

"You _so_ would have done that as a kid," Ginny accuses.

" _Would_ _have_?" I laugh. "I'm thinking up pranks as we speak!"

But a thought makes my heart twist – I wonder what kind of baby I'd been. Had Dad reacted like that mother had? I resolve to ask him, and also tell him of the pranking opportunities, in my very first letter home.

"Harry, Ron, Hermione!" a voice calls, and I look to see a figure clad in a maniacal amount of green approaching from a shamrock-covered tent.

It quite matched everything else in the area – everything had gone green, and I had noticed.

I turn my attention back to the speaker, whom I identify as Seamus Finnigan, fellow Gryffindor and obviously huge supporter of the Irish National team.

"Hey, guys," he greets us excitedly. "Fancy seeing you all here. Supporting Ireland, I hope?"

"Yeah," I reply, waving to Seamus' mother and best friend, Dean Thomas, who was also in Gryffindor. "We aren't suicidal."

"Good. Well, I'll see you at the match, then?"

We all agree and say our goodbyes, continuing through the campsite. They aren't the last students we run into, however; others include the Diggorys, who had found their site, and Cho Chang, a fifth-year Ravenclaw.

Harry stuttered and stumbles his way through a simple 'hello', and I lean over to whisper in his ear. "Someone's got a _cru-ush_ ," I murmur in a sing-song tone.

"Shut it," he hisses, elbowing me in the ribs. I only laugh at him.

We were at the watering spout now, and Ron quickly collects the water, apparently for Mr. Weasley to try and cook on. We amble our way back through the Bulgarian section, which was decked out in red and black. We had to pause for a moment when Ron spots Viktor Krum, his idol and _totally_ -not-man-crush.

"He doesn't look too pleasant," I comment, craning my neck to look at the renowned Quidditch star.

"' _Doesn't look too pleasant_ '?" Ron asks incredulously. "Who cares what he looks like, Ori? He's bloody brilliant! Been on a pro team for a year, and he's still in school! You think I can get his autograph?"

I resort to grabbing the back of his shirt and forcibly dragging him away, making water splash everywhere as I did so. "Not right now, lover boy. Your dad's expecting us back at the tent."

We make it back to our site with no more incidents, and I set the water down in the boys' tent before heading back outside and spotting Mr. Weasley finally manage to light a match, only to drop it in shock.

I kneel down next to him, holding out a hand. "May I?"

He gladly relinquishes the matchbox, and I talk as I light the match; explaining how to strike it and how to make sure the firewood caught.

"You look like you've done that before," he comments as I hand the matches back, a fire now roaring.

I just give him a shrug and explain that this was how things were in the Muggle world – not a drop of magic to be found, except for in fairytales.

"Arthur!" someone shouts. "Arthur Weasley!"

I barely glance up before going back to what I was doing. There as apparently a path through the forest than ran right alongside our site, and Ministry officials had been coming and going all day.

Mr. Weasley looks up at his name being called. "Ah, there's the man of the moment. Mr. Ludo Bagman! Children, come here for a moment, will you? Mr. Bagman is the reason we got such good tickets."

He proceeds to begin instructions, starting with his own family and then moving on to Harry, Hermione, and I in age order, which meant I (a month younger than Harry and eleven younger than Hermione) was last.

Mr. Bagman eyes me with a small amount of suspicion, as all law officials were apt to do, but shakes my hand anyways.

`He looked like he had once been a prime athlete – as was evident by the yellow-and-black Quidditch robes he was wearing – but he had also let himself go, because I don't think he was sporting that 'beer belly' when playing for the Wasps.

"Everything's going smoothly," Bagman explains. "A cloudless night ahead of us, and there's barely been a bump in the plans-"

"Except for the Muggle," I mutter under my breath.

"-and so there's not much for me to do, really. Say, Arthur," Bagman continues, a shrewdly interested look crossing his face, "fancy a wager on the match?"

"Gambling?" Mr. Weasley asks dubiously, but nods. "Alright, a Galleon on Ireland, then."

"Only a Galleon?" Bagman asks with a frown. "If you say so." He produces a small notepad and jots down the numbers. "Any other takers?"

"They're a bit young to be gambling, don't you think?"

"We'll put one down," Fred cuts him off, and George and I push to the front of the crowd to stand by his side. "Twenty-three Galleons and five Sickles on Ireland winning, but Bulgaria catching the Snitch. Oh, and we'll throw in a trick wand designed by the one and only Miss Black over there…"

Percy makes his displeasure at this known with a hiss, but the twins hand over one of the fake wands anyways. Bagman laughs, loud and deep, when it turns into a rubber chicken under his fingers.

"That's amazing, I haven't seen one this good in years! I'd pay five Galleons for that."

Percy gasps. "Mr. Bagman, you can't-"

"Thank you," I say, giving him a charming smile. "Some of my best work." Actually, that title belonged to the Animagus transformation, but that was illegal. "I'd like to bet as well – fifty Galleons on a tie game, please."

"Oh ho!" Bagman laughs. "You want to bet big, then? Alright. Fifty Galleons. Anyone else?"

No one else steps forward, and Bagman puts away the notepad and hands me the rubber chicken. "Have a good day, then, and I'll see you all at the match." With that, he walks off into the woods, presumably heading for the pitch.

"Speaking of the match, we should probably go now, if we want to beat the crowds," Mr. Weasley announces. "Does everyone have everything?"

"One minute," I call, turning back to the girls' tent. I quickly duck inside and grab a small leather money pouch that Dad had given me – apparently it drew from the Black vault and Gringotts, but had spending limits set on it; I had access to enough money to buy a new trunk, my school supplies for next year, and a few souvenirs while I was here.

I rejoin the group as we follow the majority of the campsite, which was traveling in the general direction of the stadium.

Once we reach the queue, Mr. Weasley, Bill, Charlie, and Percy agree to wait in line, letting the rest of us roam around with an agreement to check in every fifteen minutes.

Fred and George disappear almost immediately, going off to Merlin-knows-where, and Ginny spotted some of her year mates in the crowd and went off to talk to them, leaving Harry, Ron, Hermione and I to wander among the souvenir stands.

I pick up various Irish gear, including a green-and-white striped scarf, a shamrock-covered hat, and a pin that was the winged shamrock logo of the team.

"Hey, what're those?" I ask Hermione, pointing at a busy stand a few feet away.

"Omnioculars," Ron, the tallest of the group, reads the sign with a wistful sigh. "I've always wanted a pair."

"What are they?"

"I've read about them," Hermione predictably interjects. "They're kind of like a cross between Muggle binoculars and a video camera – they allow you to view things normally, but also rewind, slow down, and fast-forward what you're seeing," she recites.

I mull over this for a moment before nodding. "Sounds cool. Come on, I'm buying you one," I announce, not giving Ron a chance to argue as I drag his towards the stand.

"What? Ori, no, I'm not going to let you buy me a pair of Omnioculars – they cost _ten Galleons_!"

"Trust me," I sigh. "I can afford it. If it makes you feel any better, Harry and I will split it. Won't we, Harry?" I ask with a pointed look at my god-brother, who nods.

Ron hesitates for a long while before grudgingly nodding, and Harry and I make our way up to the salesperson. "Four pairs, please," I request as I hand over fifteen Galleons, as Harry does the same – Hermione had stubbornly refused to let us pay, citing that her parents had just gotten a raise which allowed her to splurge a bit.

I just roll my eyes and step out of her way, handing Ron his Omnioculars with a grin. "There. That wasn't so bad, was it? And think of it this way: now you don't have to put as much effort in for a Christmas present."

He gives me a small smile. "If you say so…thanks, Ori."

"No problem," I smile. "That's-"

I'm interrupted by a shot a blue light landing at my feet, and before I can get my wand out it forms into an antelope and speaks with Bill's voice. _"Guys, we're almost at the front of the line! Fred, George, and Ginny already came back – hurry up!"_

It bursts into a cloud of blue-white fog, and I sprint back the way it came. We cut back through the crowd and into the queue, quickly finding the majority of the Weasleys, all decked out in some fashion of Ireland gear.

"We've never looked more like Slytherins in our lives," I quip, looking down at my bright green sweater with shamrock pin.

"Bite your tongue," George admonishes good-naturedly. "Although it is a contradiction, I guess."

"Ooh, big words," I tease, laughing as I run up the stand stairs and out of his reach. I stop at our box, nearly at the top.

"Wow," Harry breathes.

Wow, indeed. We were about a thousand feet above the pitch, which looked smooth as glass from this high up. From our seats, we could see hundreds of thousands of people filling the stands. Directly across from us, there was a massive scoreboard, messages scrolling across it like they were being written and erased on a giant chalkboard.

In the box to the left of us, there was Minister Fudge – a fact which made me a bit nervous – and the Bulgarian Minister of Magic, who apparently spoke no English. Fudge didn't speak Bulgarian, so listening to the two of them communicate was a bit like watching two mimes in an old comedy.

"Blimey, Dad," Ron breathes, looking down, "how far up are we?"

"Let's put it this way," a silky-smooth voice drawls. "If it rains, you'll be the first to know."

I close my eyes, grimacing before I step around Ron to lean against the landing to look down at the Malfoys, junior and senior.

"Father and I are in the Minister's box," the younger Malfoy calls up. "By invitation of Cornelius Fudge himself!"

"That's great," I return. "Idiots should enjoy the company of other idiots."

Mr. Weasley puts a hand on my arm in warning, and Mr. Malfoy whacks at his son's feet with his snake-topped cane. "Don't boast, Draco. You don't need to with these… _people_."

I take a deep breath, hardly wanting to believe that I was related to these people – Mr. Malfoy had married my father's cousin, making him my cousin and Malfoy the younger my second cousin.

I turn away, but Mr. Malfoy stops me with a whack of his cane against my right hand, the black cane hitting my ring with a metallic _clink_.

"Do enjoy yourself," Malfoy drawls. "While you still can."

I narrow my eyes at the ominous tone, but he just sweeps away with a flick of his cane beckoning his son away.

While I hadn't been looking, the stands had filled up, and I watch Bagman step forward.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen!" he calls, his amplified voice echoing around the stadium. "Welcome to the 422nd Final of the Quidditch World Cup!"


	4. Chapter 4

The crowd roars, and I tune Bagman out as he goes on about how this was a marvel of magical achievement, a sign of prosperity in peace, so on and so forth.

Eventually the crowd roars again, and I look up just in time to see seven players in green and white robes take to the field.

"It's the Irish!" Ron calls.

"It's Troy-"

"-and Mullet-"

"-and Moran!" Fred and George cheer, pointing at each of the Chasers in turn.

On the pitch, leprechauns were dancing and something gold shimmered in the air – coins, I quickly realize.

Ron catches a handful of them, shoving them at Harry and I. "Now I don't have to worry about your Christmas presents!"

I roll my eyes but pocket the gold as the Irish names are announced.

Suddenly, the gigantic holographic leprechaun explodes in a burst of red, and a line of players in red pushes through the Irish line.

"Here comes the Bulgarians!" Ron calls.

" _And your Bulgarian National Team!"_ Bagman announces. _"You have Zograf! Dimitrov! Ivanona! Leviski! Dimitrov! Volkov! Aaaaaand – Krum!"_

The stadium erupts in cheers, and I slip my Omnioculars down and zoom in on the Bulgarian Seeker – he looked completely at home in the air, so much so that it was almost unnerving.

The cheers in the stadium change and Hermione tugs on my sleeve. "Look."

I direct my attention downwards, to where the Bulgarian mascots were on the pitch. They were girls with porcelain skin that shone in the spotlight, and white-gold hair that flowed like rivers. They were admittedly beautiful, but I could easily see that they weren't _human_.

But the boys didn't seem to care – behind us, Harry and Ron had gone still, and I turn to see their eyes glassy and their jaws slack.

"Veela!" Hermione shouts, reaching out to grab Ron as he tries to dive out of the box. "They're a bit like Sirens in Greek Mythology – men will go insane trying to impress them…Harry!"

I whip around just in time to see Harry lift a leg over the side of the box, and I lunge forward to grab him around the waist and haul him back to his seat.

I look at Mr. Weasley, who was stopping Ron from shredding his Ireland hat. "Why aren't you affected?"

"Veelas don't affect men who have already found their true love," he answers.

"That's adorable," I sigh. "Harry, _sit down_." I have to practically sit on my god-brother to keep him in his seat.

Finally, the Veela leave the field, and I let out a sigh of relief as Harry sags underneath me even as the crowd roars in displeasure.

The referee – a short, scrawny man with golden robes – is quickly introduced, and he releases the balls; the dimpled Quaffle, two buzzing Bludgers, and – although I couldn't see it – the Snitch was out there somewhere.

"Aaaand, they're OFF!"Bagman calls. "And it's Troy, to Mullet, to Moran, to Dimitriov! Leviski! Mullet! Troy!"

The Chasers were moving fast, so fast that Bagman could only say their names, but I managed to keep my eyes on the Quaffle as it's thrown back and forth. I flip a switch on my Omnioculars and the names of the plays shimmers across my vision.

 _Hawkshead attacking formation_ flashes across the screen as the Irish Chasers pack in tight, bearing down on the Bulgarians. Troy brings the Quaffle up into a Porskoff Ploy, drawing away Ivanonva and dropping it to Moran, who ducks a Bludger and passes it to Leviski. Leviski is smacked with a Bludger from Connolly and forced to drop the ball, where it's intercepted by Troy, who expertly uses a Chelmondiston Charge to send the Quaffle through the goalpost.

"TROY SCORES!" Bagman screams. "And it's Ireland, ten-zero!"

I let out a whoop of joy and bounce up and down.

"What?" Harry asks. "But Leviski has the Quaffle!"

"You'll never catch anything if you watch is slow motion!" I holler back, waving as Troy took a victory lap around the pitch.

I continue to watch in amazement as the Irish Chasers work flawlessly with each other, almost seeming to read each other's minds as they score two more times within ten minutes, bringing the score to thirty-zero.

The match becomes even faster and more brutal. The Bulgarian Beaters were hitting the Bludgers as hard as they could towards the Irish Chasers, who were twice forced to scatter; finally, Ivanova breaks through their lines and Ryan, the Irish Keeper, can't block him. Bulgaria scores, the score is brought to thirty-ten, and the red-draped crowd goes berserk.

"Fingers in your ears, boys!" Mr. Weasley calls, and I grab Harry just in case as the Veela begin to dance again.

Thankfully, their dance only lasts a few seconds, and the game resumes.

Five minutes later, the crowd's attention is drawn to the center of the field – Krum and Lynch were diving fast; had they really seen the Snitch this quickly?

Apparently not, because Krum pulls up at the last moment, but Lynch isn't so lucky – he plows into the ground, throwing up dirt as his Firebolt gouges into the pitch.

"Time out!" Bagman calls. "Time out while mediwizards check on Lynch!"

I focus on the scene of the crash, zooming in and rewinding the scene, playing it forward slowly.

 _Wronski Feint – Dangerous evasion maneuver_ flashes across the lenses, and I groan – Harry had surely seen the same thing I had, and I would bet money he'd try it. If not executed properly, I knew that move could break his neck. Harry already had trouble following him everywhere he went – did he _really_ need to make it worse?

Lynch eventually gets airborne again, and the Chasers roar ahead – within the next fifteen minutes, ten more goals are scored, leaving the score at one hundred thirty-ten, Ireland.

The game was getting dirtier as time went on, reminding me of a Slytherin game I played last year, only worse.

Mullet flew toward the Bulgarian goalpost, and I cheer even as Zograf, the opposing Keeper, flies out to meet her. There's a clash of green and red, and everything happens too fast for me to see, but Mostafa's whistle soon signals a penalty.

"And Mostafa takes Zograf to task for cobbing – excessive use of elbows!" Bagman informs the crowd. "Penalty to Ireland!"

The Bulgarian crowd roars as the Irish leprechauns take to the skies, spelling out "HA! HA! HA!" in big letters.

The Veela flip their hair angrily and begin to dance again. I step in front of Harry, but something on the field catches my attention – it's Mostafa, and he's flexing his muscles and fluffing his mustache, completely focused on the Veela.

"That's not good!" Bagman calls as I double over, shaking with laughter. "Someone slap the referee!"

A mediwizard charges across the field and kicks him in the shins, and I laugh even harder as Mostafa gets extremely blustered and tries to evict the Veela from the field.

The Bulgarian Beaters, Volkov and Vulchanov, land and begin to argue with the referee. I zoom in to watch the conflict; Mostafa stabs a finger in the air, clearly telling the players to take flight. They don't, and Mostafa gives two sharp bursts on his whistle.

" _Two_ penalties for Ireland!" Bagman says. "Volkov and Vulchanov are in the air again – there they go – Troy and Moran are taking the penalties…"

Ireland scores twice more, bringing the score to one fifty-ten. Bulgaria, of course, is irate – their Beaters didn't seem to care if their clubs hit human or Bludger. The Chasers were mad, as well; Dimitriov flies straight at Moran, who had the Quaffle, nearly knocking her off her broom.

Mostafa's whistle shrieks again, and Ireland gets yet another penalty for blatching, or flying with intent to collide. The leprechauns rise into the air and form a rude gesture towards the Veela.

I snort in humor, but the Veela are pissed off – they rise to the skies and begin transforming into large, copper-colored, harpy-like creatures.

Who have _fireballs._ Bloody _fireballs._

I watch in amazement as the Veela and leprechauns clash on the pitch; Ministry officials get involved, and it all goes into chaos. The match is still going on, but it can barely be heard over the screeches of the Veela and the bangs of the Ministry's spells.

The crowd roars, and I look up to watch the Quaffle as it changes hands again and again.

"It's Leviski – Dimitriov – Mullet – Troy – Moran – Ivanova – Moran again – MORAN SCORES!"

The Irish crowd roars with glee, but the battle of the mascots was still happening on the pitch, and our cries were almost drowned out.

The game got on quickly; the Quaffle kept passing between hands, but people were starting to get impatient.

Suddenly, an Irish Beater swings his bat, sending a Bludger at Krum's face, and he doesn't duck fast enough. The Beater connects with a sharp _crack_ and a spray of red.

The Bulgarian crowd gives a loud boo, but Mostafa doesn't blow the whistle.

I scowl – I might be supporting Ireland, but Krum was admittedly a good player, and medical attention was still required.

"Ah, come on!" Ron groans. "He can't play like that – look at him-"

" _Look at Lynch!"_ Harry shouts, his keen eyes having caught something the rest of ours didn't.

I quickly find the Irish Seeker and zoom in, watching with bated breath as Lynch chases something unseen across the field, Krum just on his tail – although I didn't know how he could see, there was blood flying everywhere.

The two Seekers dive sharply, streaking towards the ground in a blur of green and red.

"Lynch isn't stopping!" Harry shouts.

"Krum is!" I return. It was true; Krum was pulling out of the dive, blood still freely flowing from his nose.

Lynch, however, was not; he plows into the dirt head-first, flying off his broom and lying still a few feet away.

The only ones paying him any attention were the mediwizards; everyone else was going insane over the fact that Krum had caught the Snitch.

"It's all over!" Bagman says. "It is all over! Krum has caught the Snitch!"

I zoom in and, sure enough, there's a tiny glint of gold in the Seeker's hand. The scoreboard flashes the final score: BULGARIA: 160, IRELAND: 170.

"IRELAND WINS!" Bagman yells. "BULGARIA HAS THE SNITCH – BUT IRELAND GETS THE MATCH!"

"Why'd he do that?" Ron howls. "He could've won the match if he'd just given them a little more time!"

"He knew he wouldn't catch up to the Irish Chasers," I respond, watching as the Irish team hoisted the massive Quidditch World Cup. "He wanted to end it on his own terms."

"He looks a mess," Hermione remarks, looking over at the bloody Bulgarian.

"Vell, ve fought bravely," I hear the Bulgarian Minister remark, laughing as Fudge gets outraged that he had been uselessly miming things all day.

I follow our group down the stairs and out of the stadium, joining the merry crowd, mostly heading back to their campsites, just like we were. We run into a hoarse Bagman along the way, where Fred and George each collect their winnings while I'm forced to hand over my fifty Galleon loss.

Once we reach the tent, we all gather in the boys' tent, where Mr. Weasley agrees to one more cup of hot chocolate before getting drawn into a debate on cobbing with Charlie. I get drawn into a debate with the twins over my reportedly poor betting choices, while I defend that it was only ten points away from a tie game; I was close enough.

Conversation is halted when Ginny falls asleep at the table, almost spilling hot chocolate all over. Mr. Weasley sends us all to bed and bids us goodnight, and I help the half-asleep thirteen-year-old in the girls' tent.

Climbing into the bunk above Hermione, I think about what life might be like as a professional player – the crowds cheering my name, the money, the fame…

I must've fallen asleep at some point, my fantasies turning into dreams, because the next thing I'm aware of is the sounds of screaming and Hermione shaking me awake.

"Orissa, wake up! You have to hurry – the camp is on fire!"


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello, all! So sorry for not updating in, well,** _ **forever**_ **, but real life is persistent and my muse refuses to cooperate sometimes. To make up for it, this chapter is about 1,000 words longer than usual – over 3K. Sorry if that bothers anyone.**

 **Thanks to AliasGrace625 for reviewing the last chapter! Thanks a bunch!**

* * *

 _I must've fallen asleep at some point, my fantasies turning into dreams, because the next thing I'm aware of is the sounds of screaming and Hermione shaking me awake._

" _Orissa, wake up! You have to hurry – the camp is on fire!"_

.

Hermione's words take a moment to sink into my sleep-ridden brain, but once I realize what she's said I sit bolt upright, my head hitting the top of the tent. "What?!"

Her brown eyes are brimming with tears. "There are people out there, Ori..."

I've been said to have a clear head under pressure, and it was certainly coming in handy now.

"Come on," I command, "We need to get out. Now. Ginny, wake up!" I hurry over to the redhead, roughly yanking her up and out of bed.

"Hey!"

"Sorry, but we're under fire," I explain bluntly, throwing her coat at her before shrugging on my own. "Literally."

"What?!" Ginny yells before Hermione steps closer to give a brief explanation.

I lead the way out the tent, the sight of the world outside making me stop in my tracks.

The camp _was_ on fire – but spells were also flying overhead. People in black cloaks and hoods marched through the campground. People dangled by their ankles above the crowd – I recognized them, sickeningly, as the muggle, his wife, and their two children.

Merlin, _children._

A hand on my shoulder makes me startle, and out of pure instinct I whirl around and punch the owner of said hand.

"Agh! _Ori_!" Harry shouts, clutching at his mouth.

"Sorry!" I squeak. "Did I hurt you?"

"A bit." He removes his hand to reveal two split and bloody lips. "It doesn't matter. Come on!"

He drags me over to where Mr. Weasley was gathering everyone together.

"Harry, Ori, there you are! I was getting worried. We need to split up," he explains hurriedly. "Bill, Charlie, you're coming with me. Fred, George, get your sister out, by any means necessary. Ron, Harry, Hermione, Orissa, go through the forest. Everyone, meet back at the boot as soon as you can!"

Multiple calls of "yes sir!" were heard as we all ran in different directions. I sprint behind Ron, Harry, and Hermione, every sense on high alert as we plunge into the trees.

"Ori, can you shift into your dog form?" Hermione pants as we reach a small clearing.

I shake my head. "No. I need my wand – it's not safe out there unarmed."

"That might be the smartest idea you've ever had, Black," a silky-smooth voice drawls behind us.

Almost simultaneously, the four of us spin around to point our wands at Draco Malfoy, who was leaning against a tree nearby.

"Better be careful, Granger," he warns, shifting his attention to Hermione. "I hear they're hunting muggles out there."

"Hermione's a witch!" Ron protests hotly. "She's better than you'll ever be, Malfoy."

"Is that so?" the blond wizard asks.

"It is," I confirm. I take one half-step towards him. "Ron, Harry, Hermione, keep moving."

"But, Ori-"

"I'll be right after you."

"Mr. Weasley said-"

"I know what he said. Go!" I bark.

They scurry off, and I lean back against a tree. "Malfoy."

"Black," he sneers, glancing at my hand. "I see you ran to Daddy over the summer."

"And what if I did?" I challenge. "It's not like the Ministry will ever find me – you know how guarded the Ancient Houses are."

"I do," he agrees smoothly. "Which is why I might just keep an eye on you this year. You step out of line, and I'll be more than happy to report to Father."

"Who's running to Daddy now?" I mock. "Real brave, Malfoy."

"Don't mock me, Black." Malfoy takes a step closer to me. "You do good to not talk back to your superiors."

"I hope you don't mean you," I laugh, pushing off the tree and drawing my wand, hexing him with a boils hex, followed by a swelling hex.

"You better watch yourself, you prick," I warn, looking him in the eye. "You've got quite the talent for pissing people off...it's quite annoying, to be honest."

Malfoy tries to reply, but all I hear is a bunch of garbling forced past puffy, swollen lips. He storms off, and I shake my head; the Malfoys belonged to a world of politics and intrigue that I would never enter, even in my wildest dreams.

I walk off in the other direction, stopping in the long shadow of a tree and taking a deep breath. I relax my shoulders and call on the information in a far corner of my brain, closing my eyes as my body shifts and mutates.

When my eyes open again, the ground is a lot closer than it had been. The world looks muted, as if someone had decided to blot out all the bright colors. My sense of smell is multiplied by a hundred, as was my hearing.

I was an Animagus – illegally, of course. I was a medium-sized dog covered in smooth black fur; I think I looked a bit like a Black Labrador, but with slightly longer fur.

This was another thing I shared with my father – he was a slightly larger, bear-like, shaggy black dog Animagus.

I shake my coat out and take off through the woods, the screams of terror piercing my ears as the smell of smoke assaulted my nose.

I reach the edge of the woods and shift back into a human, running forward and plunging into the crowd of people. "Harry! Ron! Hermione!"

The only reply I get is a harsh shove by a mother running past, clinging to a small child.

"Harry! Ron! Hermione!" I try again, ducking under a taller wizard's arm. Still nothing.

"Harry! Ron! _Hermione!"_ I howl, my heart jumping into my throat. What if they were dead? What if the people in the black cloaks had killed The Boy-Who-Lived and Hermione, just like Malfoy had said?

 _What if my best friends were dead?_

"Harry!" I scream, my throat burning as smoke started to flood my lungs. My eyes stung, my heart was pounding, where was my focus-?

"Orissa!" A familiar voice hollers, and relief floods my system as Harry grabs my arm. I lunge forward and wrap my arms around him.

"I thought you were dead," I gasp. His arms tighten around me and squeeze for a slight moment before letting go.

I step back and look at him, and then Ron and Hermione. "Everyone okay?"

"Yeah," Hermione nods. "Are you?"

"I'm fine," I assure her. "Come on, we need to find Mr. Weasley."

We shove our way back through the crowd, pushing and shoving our way back to the portkey field where we'd entered that morning.

We bump into the rest of the Weasley clan soon enough, and Mr. Weasley looks immensely relieved. "Is everyone alright?"

"Yes sir," we all chorus.

"Does everyone have their wands with them?" he demands.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione all nod, but as I search my pockets and turn up nothing but spare change, a feeling of dread washes over me. "Uh..."

"Ori? What is it?"

"I don't have my wand," I say in a rush. "Where is it?"

"Where did you last have it, Orissa?" Mr. Weasley asks urgently.

I quickly think back over the night's events. "The forest," I decide. "I confronted Malfoy, and-" I cut myself off.

"And?" Mr. Weasley pushes. "Did he steal it?"

"No." I shake my head. "I hexed him with my own wand. I...I must've dropped it...while I was running."

Mr. Weasley seems to accept this. "It shouldn't be a problem if no one has it. Just stay close to someone with a wand, and _do not_ , under any circumstances, wander off by yourself. Understood?"

I nod and shuffle closer to Harry as the group starts moving again.

"What really happened in the forest?" my godbrother asks.

"I had to shift," I report under my breath. "In the forest. I hexed Malfoy, ran, shifted, ran some more, shifted back, then found you."

"You might've dropped it when you shifted," he suggests. "But, like Mr. Weasley said, as long as no one has it, it should be fine."

I nod, moving away from Harry and letting myself fall to the back of the group, keeping one eye behind us as we made our way through the crowd.

A flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye makes me turn my head. I watch a little girl - six or seven, at the most - run across an open stretch of grass, her dress fluttering as she moved.

For some reason, I simply stand and watch as she runs, tracking her movement through the field and idly wondering where her parents were.

And then the night is shattered by a shout and a brilliant flash of green. Time seems to slow to a crawl. The light fades, and I spot a tiny little figure lying on the grass: it's the little girl, her eyes wide open and staring, her jaw slack.

She's dead. A child...dead. Killed, by whatever that spell was, by whoever had cast it.

"Ori!" Harry's voice breaks me from my thoughts. "Keep moving!"

I open my mouth, close it, and shake my head, lurching forward into a run.

Shoving all thoughts of the death – _murder_ – I'd just witnessed out of my mind, I keep pace with the group, making sure not to fall behind again because the camp was _still_ on fire, and there were people in black cloaks-

" _STUPEFY!"_

" _DUCK!"_

Speak of the devil.

At Harry's shout, I dive to the ground as an orange beam flies overhead. I hear everyone return fire, and I loudly curse my inability to keep track of my wand. Heir to an Ancient and Noble House, my foot.

Once the attackers were all taken down, no one seems to have much of a plan beyond 'run in the other direction', but as we near the forest, I skid to a stop. "What is that?"

"What is what, Ori?" Hermione asks absently.

"That – everyone, be _quiet_!" I holler, and as the noise around me fades, another sound becomes more prominent.

"There is bad wizards, Master – Winky must flee – _please,_ Master!"

"It's only a House-Elf," Mr. Weasley sighs in relief.

I quietly watch the House-Elf, Winky, run – she was running oddly, as if she was straining against something.

"She was in the stands with us," Harry comments. "Didn't seem to like it much."

"Why do you think she can't leave?" I wonder aloud. "She seems like she wants to."

"She probably hasn't been allowed to flee," Ron says with a shrug. "Leaving would be defying orders."

Behind him, Hermione scoffs in disgust. "House-Elves are treated really horribly, you know that? It's no better than better than slavery!"

"But House-Elves are _born_ to serve, 'Mione," I argue as we begin moving again. "That's all they do in life."

She just gives me a nasty look and sniffs before falling silent. I sigh and bump her shoulder gently. "Sorry."

"Thank you. It's not your fault, though," she sighs.

I can't say anything to that, so I just shrug and go back to watching the destruction around us. The mob at the center of the campsite had thinned out a bit, but people were still frantic and there was still a bit of a crowd.

Our little posse is mainly quiet until Ron speaks up.

"What do you think is going on – _ah!"_

"What!" I spin around, peering through the wand-lit darkness at where Ron's voice had come from. "Ron?"

"'M okay," he mutters, and after a soft incantation, a third wand is lit, showing an Ireland scarf wrapped around his leg. "Just tripped, that's all."

"Why must your feet be so huge?" I ask him irritably. I look up and around for his dad and find the bunch of redheads nowhere. "Great, now we've lost everyone."

"I think they went that way," Hermione suggests, diffusing the tension between Ron and I before it could escalate. She's pointing off towards a grove of trees, a little more out of the way of the main stream of traffic and half-hidden in the darkness.

I nod and lead the way over to it, leaning against a tree to catch my breath. "What now?"

I can practically see the gears turning in Hermione's head as she, ever the planner, decides on a course of action.

"Well," she starts, "we should probably find Mr. Weasley, that would be best-" She trails off and seems to focus on something past me. "What's that?"

"What's what?" I follow her gaze and stop mid-turn – I could hear something moving through the trees.

"Everyone be quiet," Harry commands, and all noise ceased. We could all be overreacting here. It might just be a bear.

Yeah, and my father and Snape would host a tea party together. I _knew_ something was wrong here – I just didn't know what, yet.

My suspicions are confirmed when the noise becomes clearer – those are definitely footsteps, but they stop before I can see who they belong to.

Then there's a rustling sound and a beat of silence, followed by a loud shout; it was a word, a spell, but not one I recognized.

" _MORSMORDRE!"_

The night is suddenly bathed in an eerie green light; hanging in the sky above us was a symbol of some sort. It was a skull with its jaw hanging wide open, a serpent slithering out of the skull's mouth. The entire thing is glowing a brilliant green, reminding me slightly of the Northern Lights.

I soon realize that the appearance of the symbol had greatly changed the atmosphere of the campsite – people were screaming, sobbing, running every which way – in short, everything had gone to hell. Again.

"No," Hermione breathes behind me. She sounds like she's about to cry, and her eyes listen as she stares up at the symbol.

"What is that?" I ask her gently.

"That's the Dark Mark," she whimpers. " _His_ mark."

"Voldemort's," Harry whispers.

No sooner does he say the words, then there's a loud _crack_ signaling Apparation, and twenty-odd wizards suddenly appear, surrounding the four of us. Every single newcomer had a wand out – and point _straight at us._

"HIT THE DECK!" I roar, diving behind a tree as a barrage of light flies past.

"Stop!" A familiar voice calls. "Stop! That's my son!"

Mr. Weasley appears at the edge of the grove, his three eldest sons behind him, looking furious and terrified at the same time. I just hoped he wasn't mad at _us._

"Ron, Harry, Hermione, Orissa," he asks, voice trembling just a little, "are you alright?"

"Yeah, Dad," Ron confirms. "Just scraped."

"Move out of the way, Arthur," a new voice interrupts, dragging my attention to a man standing behind Ron's dad. He's tall-ish, with a ramrod straight back; he's wearing a sharp black suit and perfectly polished shoes.

"Mr. Crouch," Mr. Weasley greets.

"Mr. Weasley," he returns coolly, then fixes his gaze on the four of us. "Which one of you was it? Which one you cast the Dark Mark?"

"We didn't do anything!" I protest.

"Do not lie!" Mr. Crouch yells, moving his wand so that it was pointed at me. He looked like he was being strangled; his eyes were bulging, his face was a vibrant red, and his thin handlebar mustache quivered like a small animal. "One of you did it! One of you is supporting You-Know-Who!"

"Where did the Dark Mark come from, kids?" Mr. Weasley asks quickly before I can protest.

"Over there." Hermione points off into the darkness, towards where we'd heard the footsteps. "There was an incantation-"

"Stood over there, did he? There was an incantation, was there? You seem to know a lot about the darkest of spells, miss!" Crouch accuses.

I let out a derisive scoff. So yeah, the spell had an _incantation_ – that was basic spellcraft knowledge. Every single spell _ever_ had words attached to it – that much was basic eleven-year-old knowledge. It didn't, by any stretch of the imagination, mean that Hermione was the next dark wizard.

"Calm down, Barty," a man with a scruffy beard says. He was Amos Diggory – Cedric's father. "I'll go check."

"Be careful, Amos," another wizard warns, but Diggory just squares his shoulders and marches into the trees.

"I've found something!" his voice calls a moment later. "Yes, I've found – wait – but it can't be…"

"What have you found, Amos?" Crouch asks. "Bring them out!"

Diggory emerges from the trees, a small figure held in his arms. For a second I think it's a child – and wouldn't that be horrifying? – but no. It's Winky.

"But – but that's not possible!" Crouch sputters. "The Dark Mark is a wizard's sign! It requires a wand!"

"She _did_ have a wand," Diggory admits, pulling out a long, thin piece of wood; it was black, barely visible against the night, but I recognized it right away.

"That's mine!" I blurt out, taking a step back as twenty pairs of eyes and more than one wand was focused on me. "But I didn't cast it!"

"A likely story!" Crouch scoffs. "I should have known it would be you! A Black, just like your family, murdering muggles left and right as you please-"

"I did _not_!" I yell, stretching to my full height. I knew Crouch held power, but I didn't particularly care. He could be the Minister of Magic for all I cared – come to think of it, I had a bone to pick with Fudge too.

"I dropped my wand earlier," I continue. "I was in the forest just after the start of the attack. I haven't had it since."

"And besides," Mr. Weasley says, jumping into the conversation, "Orissa is – and always has been – closely tied to Harry Potter. What reason would she possibly have to cast the Dark Mark?"

Most of the wizards and witches back off at this, but Crouch is persistent. "You could be spy for them – trying to please your father, I'd imagine-"

"Barty, stop." Diggory lays a hand on his colleague's arm. "She's just a girl."

Crouch desists, but I can feel his eyes on me.

"The question still remains, however, how this elf got this wand. And even if this is the wand that cast the spell," a witch I don't know interjects.

Diggory nods. "There is an easy way to find out if this is the wand." Drawing his own wand, Diggory points it at mine. " _Priori Incantato!"_

A ghost-like mist erupts from the end of my wand and, sure enough, forms a snake-tongued skull, an exact miniature of the one hanging above us.

"That settles that, then," I drawl, breaking the stunned silence that had come over all of us.

Diggory nods. "Only one question left." He points his own wand at Winky. " _Ennervate!"_

The House-Elf gasps and sits upright, cowering once she sees the wizards towering over her.

"Where did you get this wand, elf?" Crouch demands, gesturing to where Diggory held up my wand.

"Winky is finding it, M-Master," she whimpers. "Over in the trees."

"See?" Mr. Weasley asks. "She simply was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"But she must've seen something," Diggory argues.

Crouch nods. "What did you see?" he demands of his elf, who avoids his gaze.

"Winky is…seeing nothing Master."

"That's it, then," I cut in. "She didn't cast it, I didn't cast it, and you don't know who did. Can I have my wand back now?"

Diggory nods and hands it back, and I twirl the wood between my fingers once before pocketing it and giving Crouch a smug look.

"We really must be going," Mr. Weasley says politely, in that "I'm so sorry for my child's rudeness" tone that adults often used around me. "Good day, gentlemen." He hurries us away, and I realize that we're heading back towards the portkey field.

We find the old boot soon enough, and Bill splits off to talk to Mr. Roberts – someone must've gotten him free and to safety. The oldest Weasley boy returns after a minute, looking pleased.

"Portkey leaves in under a minute," he reports. "We were just in time. Everyone grab on, now."

I kneel down and grab the edge of the boot. Hermione does the same next to me, while Harry simply sits down and Ron lies on his stomach. Fred and George flop bonelessly down and grab onto the toe of the boot, leaving Ginny, Percy, Charlie, Bill and Mr. Weasley to grab where they could.

"Three…two…one…now!" Mr. Weasley shouts, and I close my eyes as the world dissolves around me.


	6. Chapter 6

**Thanks to csilla (Guest) for reviewing the last chapter!**

* * *

I didn't _see_ our return to the Burrow so much as I _felt_ it.

After the portkey disengaged, I hit the ground hard, bounced a little, and rolled to stop. I was quite content to lay there for a moment; no one was trying to kill me at the moment, so life was good.

"Orissa, wake up!" A worried voice calls. "Orissa? Are you dead?"

"Bugger off," I groan. Blinking my eyes open, I watch one of the twins' faces come into focus - George, who had a thin scar on his temple that he would never explain to me.

"Morning," he chirps cheerfully. "You okay, mate?"

"I'm fine," I wave him off, pushing myself up off the ground and brushing the dirt off my clothes. "I do want a shower, though. And tea."

"I'm sure Mum would be happy to oblige," he laughs. "Once you get checked over for injuries, that is."

I chuckle in agreement as we head back to the house, retracing the path that thirteen sleepy people had taken the morning before. The Diggorys hadn't returned with us, and I just hoped that they returned at _some_ point.

I take a deep breath through my nose. I loved the smell or early mornings, even if I wasn't a morning person; the dew smelled fresh and clean, and the stars glittered like diamonds. Looking up, I spotted one star in particular: the North Star. Also known as Sirius, the Dog Star.

It had lent its name to Sirius Black – not my dad, but Sirius Black the First, who was born in 1845. His nephew was Sirius Black II, and _his_ great-grandson was my dad, making Sirius II my great-grandfather, and Sirius the First my great-great-

"Blackie?" George asks. "What're you thinking about?"

"Family relations," I explain. "It's giving me a headache."

"Oh. Do you randomly walk around thinking about your mad relatives?" he asks, and while the question might seem innocent to the untrained ear, I could hear the undertone of sarcasm in George's voice.

"No, you idiot." I roll my eyes. "I was looking at stars, which led to family members, which led to _more_ family members…"

"…which leads to headaches," he finishes with a nod. "I know the feeling. Mum's got a boatload of cousins on the Prewitt side, and of course Dad's got a big Weasley family, complete with grandparents and great-grandparents and great-aunts and uncles." He gives me a wry half-grin, his brown eyes sparkling. "Family reunions are usually busy."

"I can imagine," I laugh, picturing the scene: red hair and freckles for miles on end. The image is wiped away as the Burrow comes into view, and I kick my pace into a brisk trot as we near the house.

Mrs. Weasley greets us at the front door. "Oh, there you all are! I heard about the attack through the _Prophet_ …terrifying business, that is."

Once she's greeted us all with nearly suffocating hugs – and a kiss, in Mr. Weasley's case – we're all shepherded inside and into the living room.

"Everyone, head up to bed, it's late," Mrs. Weasley orders. "Hermione, Orissa, you'll be with Ginny again; Ron, you're with Harry. Everyone else, to your rooms…go on, shoo!"

Almost everyone heads for the stairs – I choose to lag behind, and a quick look around shows Harry, Hermione, and Ron doing the same.

"With all due respect, Mrs. Weasley," Hermione says softly once every else has cleared out, "I don't think we can sleep right now."

"And I want to talk about what happened at the campsite, if that's possible," I add in the same tone.

"Something wasn't right," Harry pipes up, and Ron nods.

The Weasley parents seem to hold a silent conversation, throughout which there is a pregnant pause, before Mrs. Weasley nods. "Alright, dear. You four go get changed and cleaned up, and I'll make us some tea."

I nod and quickly follow Hermione to Ginny's room, grabbing some comfortable clothes out of my trunk and heading for the bathroom, jumping through a quick yet calming shower to wash the soot, sweat, and smoke off before I get dressed and let Hermione into the bathroom, heading back to the kitchen myself to find Harry already down.

"Ron's showering," he announces to no one in particular. "He should be down in a moment."

Mrs. Weasley nods. "Please, everyone take a seat. Harry, how do you take your tea?"

"One cream, two sugars, please," Harry says as he takes a seat at the table. I order my tea with two creams and no sugar and join him, sitting just to his left.

Ron joins us next, taking his tea with one sugar and sitting just to his dad's left. Hermione is the last down, taking her tea with one cream and a seat across from Harry. Mrs. Weasley is the last to sit, her own cup of tea in hand. "We might as well get started."

"Alright," Mr. Weasley takes a deep breath before beginning. "What do you want to know first?"

"Who attacked?" I ask, leaning forward onto my elbows.

"They were dark wizards," Mr. Weasley starts hesitantly. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. "Specifically, followers of…You-Know-Who. They call themselves Death Eaters."

"That's a stupid name," I mutter under my breath.

"Why would anyone willingly follow him?" Ron asks incredulously.

Mr. Weasley shrugs. "Power, I suppose. When…when He rose during the First War, You-Know-Who had hundreds of followers, at the very least. They followed him either out of hunger for power, an obligation of some sort, or just plain fear."

Harry nods, taking this in. "Why did they attack?"

"There was a lot of innocent wizards and witches in one place," Mr. Weasley admits quietly. "That, and a few muggles…" He glances at Hermione, who had gone white as a sheet. "Death Eaters particularly…enjoy…going after muggles and muggle-borns."

Hermione swallows thickly and asks in a trembling voice, "Will these attacks continue? Do you know?"

"I don't," he admits softly, unconsciously reaching for his wife's hand. "The last time, they lasted for about eleven years – until, of course, he tried to kill you, Harry. But, of course, You-Know-Who is dead," Mr. Weasley continues quickly. "There _shouldn't_ be any more attacks, not with the Death Eaters leaderless as they are."

I share a grave look with my three friends but nod, not entirely convinced but satisfied. I clear my throat. "Moving on. Who is Mr. Crouch? I don't like him."

Mr. Weasley raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment. "Bartemius Crouch, Senior, has been involved in the Ministry for as long as I can remember. He was the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement until 1990 when he got demoted to Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, where he's been since."

"Wait." Hermione suddenly sits upright in her chair. "If Mr. Crouch was Head of the DMLE, doesn't that mean he was in charge of trials?" Mrs. Weasley nods, and Hermione frowns before turning back to me. "'Rissa, Mr. Crouch would've been the one to sentence Si-Snuffles." If any of the adults caught her slip, they didn't comment. "He was the one that sent your father to Azkaban without a trial."

I stare at her for a moment, the words not quite sinking in. I blink a few times as their meaning becomes clear, a snarl curling my lips as my blood boils.

There's a loud _bang_ , and I jump out of my seat as my teacup explodes, sending porcelain and lukewarm tea everywhere. "Sorry," I apologize hurriedly. "I haven't quite gotten a handle on that yet."

"That's quite alright, dear," Mrs. Weasley hums with a small smile. "It was an accident. Is anyone hurt?"

Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Mr. Weasley all shake their heads as Mrs. Weasley does a quick _Reparo_ on the cup and a _Scourgify_ on the spilled tea, getting up to pour me a new cup. "I'm putting a Calming Draught in your cup – all of yours, actually," she adds with a flick of her wand, making the three other teacups levitate over to the kitchen. "You all need your sleep."

The four of us quietly accept our teacups back, the Draught working with the first sip. I close my eyes as the adrenaline is flushed from my system, taking with it the anger and fear that had been plaguing me.

I let out a jaw-cracking yawn, suddenly realizing that between the Cup and the subsequent attack, I hadn't slept in twenty-four hours, not including the few hours I got in the tent.

"Up to bed, all of you," I hear Mrs. Weasley order gently, and I open my eyes to see Ron, Harry, and Hermione in a similar state.

"G'night, Mum," Ron mumbles as we shuffle to our feet, trudging in a zombie-like manner either up the stairs or over to Ginny's room.

I slip into the bedroom with as little noise as possible, stumbling over to my cot and plopping down, face first and mumbling a "g'night" to Hermione.

I was asleep with seconds.

.

Thursday, August 28th – two days after the attack – found the Weasley house once again returned to its usual state of complete and utter madness; a state which, I supposed, came with having nine energetic people within one house, let alone three extra guests.

Currently, everyone was off doing various things: Mrs. Weasley had taken Bill to Diagon Alley, the former to shop for school supplies for everyone, the latter to visit Gringotts for work. Charlie had taken Ron and Harry out to the orchard for a quick game of Quidditch – although, by the looks of things, it was really just Seeker vs. Seeker with Ron as referee.

Percy had shut himself in his room; doing what, I didn't know, but he'd been in there all morning. Fred and George were also in their room, but I knew that they were planning something – if their tendencies hadn't been a dead giveaway, the occasional explosion coming from upstairs would've been. Hermione, Ginny, and I had all gathered in Ginny's room for some – and I quote – "girl time".

At the moment, I was sitting on Ginny's bed, letting the younger girl paint my toenails a deep cranberry red.

"Are you excited for school, Ginny?" Hermione asks, holding a book open with one hand while fanning the other one to dry her freshly-painted sky-blue nails.

"Yeah!" Ginny nods eagerly, not taking her attention from my foot. "I've actually got some friends this year – they're just now starting to forgive me for…you know."

"You didn't do anything wrong!" Hermione protests. "I mean, yes, your trust was a bit misplaced, but that's not a crime."

"It takes a long time for people to change, Ginger," I add gently. "Trust me. I've been in and out of the public's good graces since – since, well, I was born, I suppose, but more recently, since last September."

"I know," she sighs. "I just wish…I don't know, that they'd all come to their senses!" she lets out a frustrated noise.

I nod in silent agreement. "But not everyone hates you. Remember that. Someone once told me that 'the people that matter don't mind and the people that mind don't matter.'" I look over her head at Hermione, who grins back. "If your friends mind, tell me. They won't see the payback coming. Are you done?" I ask, glancing down at my toes.

Ginny nods and screws the cap back on the bottle of nail polish, and I awkwardly shuffle over, letting Ginny sit down next to me and letting Hermione paint her toes a light purple.

"Well, personally, I'm excited for another year," Hermione speaks up, bringing us back to the original topic.

"You don't count," I inform her with an eye-roll. "You're never _not_ excited for school. What's your schedule this year? I just want to know if it beats last year's," I defend at her odd look.

She dramatically rolls her eyes at me. "No. I already told you, I dropped Muggle Studies and Divination last year."

"But that still leaves you with Ancient Runes, Care of Magical Creatures, _and_ Arithmancy, which is one more than everyone else," I argue.

"Let it _be_ , Ori," she sighs. "I'll be _fine_." She flicks her hand in a sharp movement, and consequently draws a line of nail polish over the side of Ginny's toe. "Aw, bugger. Ginny, I'm sorry."

Ginny waves her off with a smile and a dismissive gesture. "There's no use crying over spilled polish. I'll be right back."

She hobbles off the bathroom, and as soon as the door shuts behind her, Hermione whips around to look at me. "What do you know about Snuffles?"

Internally, my panic meter skyrockets. Externally, though, I keep my face calm and collected as I ask, "What makes you think I know anything, 'Mione?"

"You're his _daughter_ ," she challenges. "You're closer than even Harry is. You can't tell me that you haven't heard from him."

I let out a breath through my teeth, turning to look out the window at the Quidditch game and, past that, the open countryside. I imagined it stretching all the way to London, to the home no one knew I had.

"I can't tell you much," I say after a moment. "But…he's safe. In one piece. I don't think he can write much, but I think he'll try." I trail off and look at her. "Is that enough?"

"I can't ask for much more, can I?" We share a small smile at the rhetorical question. "But, for the record, I'm happy you finally found the truth last year. You deserve to know that there's someone out there."

I give her a real, blinding smile in return, my response thankfully cut off by the bedroom door opening. I look up, expecting to see Ginny but finding Mrs. Weasley instead, with shopping bags in hand.

"Good afternoon, girls," she greets, stepping aside to let Ginny back in, followed by Harry and Ron. "I have your things – one bag for each of you."

I take the bag handed to me, eagerly pulling out the items like this was Christmas. There was a copy of _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ by Newt Scamander, _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4_ by Miranda Goshawk, and a darker, thicker book I hadn't seen before, titled _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection._

I put it aside for closer inspection later and grab the final item from the bag – an object about the size and shape of a brick, wrapped in butcher's paper and tied with twine. "You actually got it?" I ask Mrs. Weasley incredulously.

"I did," she nods. "Would you like me to enlarge that for you, dear?"

I nod and quickly unwrap the string and paper, setting the block on the floor and stepping back. Mrs. Weasley gives her wand a quick flick, and the box begins to grow from box-size to a hair bigger than my old trunk.

This was the new trunk I'd wanted since last September – the old one was rickety, moldy, and had the wrong initials on it.

This one was new, covered in smooth brown leather with bronze fastening and rivets. It had three compartments inside: one for clothes, one for school stuff, and one for everything else, along with smaller pockets on the inside of the lid.

Most importantly, it had the letters 'O', 'A', and 'B' branded into the center of the lid - my actual initials, on display for the world to see.

Ron lets out a low whistle as he walks around the trunk. "That's a nice one, for sure."

"I was expecting something flashier, to be honest," Harry admits.

"You wound me!" I howl dramatically, throwing an arm over my face and flopping back onto the bed. "Subtlety is my middle name."

"I thought that was Andromeda?" he replies, his face perfectly innocent.

"Or 'trouble,'" Hermione adds.

"Or 'mischief,'" Ron suggests.

"I hate all of you," I declare, snagging Ginny's pillow and flinging it at Harry, who ducks and jumps off the bed, fully prepared to start an all-out war.

Before he can, though, Mrs. Weasley freezes the pillow and levitates it towards the ceiling, out of everyone's reach. "That's enough of that."

I duck my head and glance over, expecting to see a stern look, but the Weasley matriarch is just shaking her head, amused. I suppose raising Fred and George would desensitize someone to troublemaking.

She returns the pillow to its place on the bed and pockets her wand. "Lunch will be ready at noon. Do try not to get into _too_ much trouble before then, alright?"

I snicker as she winks at me before bustling out of the room. Hermione and I quickly set to cleaning out my old trunk and transferring the necessary items into the new one. Everything got put into three piles: stuff that was salvageable, stuff that was not, and stuff that was so moldy or broken that I didn't even know what it was.

The salvageable stuff got handed to Ginny - the third-year stuff could be used this year, and everything else could be saved for future Weasleys. The useless stuff was either thrown away or given to Ron because I had a few muggle items he couldn't get enough of. Everything else was destined for the trash.

Once we'd gotten down to the mold-encrusted bottom of the old trunk, I start packing everything on the new one.

I pick up my Defense book and give the cover a critical look. "The DADA teacher doesn't seem too bad."

"No one's gonna match up to Lupin, though," Harry comments from the bed.

"The successors can only try," I declare boldly.

"Give them a chance," Hermione sighs, packing my Charms textbook in. "You might be surprised."

I roll my eyes and silently put the Defense book in.

By the time everything was packed and the anti-theft charms activated, lunch was ready, and everyone hurried downstairs, but I hang behind for a moment.

I get down on my knees and grab one more item that had been kicked under the bed. My fingers close around something soft, and I pull out a black dog plushie, slightly worn with age.

This plushie was the only thing I had left over from before 1981 – before Dad got sent to Azkaban, before Lily and James died, before The Boy-Who-Lived was even a thing. It was clearly supposed to be Padfoot, my dad's Animagus form, although I didn't know that until last year.

And now, looking at it, I felt a pressing need to write Dad, to tell him about everything from the Quidditch World Cup to the attack, about the Dark Mark and even small things like my classes or my new trunk.

But I couldn't. Because when your father is the world's only Azkaban escapee, you don't get to enjoy the little things in life. There was a muggle saying - _c'est la vie._ Apparently, it was French for "such is life."

"Orissa!" Mrs. Weasley's voice calls from the kitchen. "Your food is getting cold, dear!"

"Coming, Mrs. Weasley!" I put the dog down with a sigh and head for the door.

 _Wait till Hogwarts,_ a little voice in my head whispered. _Just wait till Hogwarts._


	7. Chapter 7

**Thanks to Ina for reviewing the last chapter. Glad you liked it. Greetings from the U.S.**

 **Enjoy this chapter, and remember that reviews make my day!**

* * *

" _AAAAUUUGHHH!"_

It isn't a really fun experience to wake up to the thought of _is someone dying?_

 _Did Death Eaters get in?_

 _Did VOLDEMORT get in?!_

But that's what woke me up on Monday morning.

I roll out of bed, grabbing my wand off the nightstand even though I really couldn't use it and sprinting out the door at a speed that was extremely fast for it being as early as it was. I follow the screaming out to the kitchen, wondering if someone had managed to slice themselves open with a knife.

But no, it's just Ron. Ron screaming his head off at…I wasn't sure _what_ that was. It was kind of red, and definitely lacy, with frills. It was ugly, but my sleep-riddled brain couldn't understand why he was screaming.

"Whassit?" I mumble, leaning against the counter.

"Oh!" Mrs. Weasley startles, just now seeing me in the doorway. "Did we wake you, Orissa? I'm so sorry – Ronald is just a bit, ah, _upset_ about his dress robes."

"Dress robes?!" Ron shrieks. "These aren't _dress robes!_ This is - this is a rug! That I _won't_ wear!"

"Ronald, please," Mrs. Weasley sighs, sounding about at the end of her rope. "You need dress robes-"

"Why?" he howls.

"This says for formal events," I mutter, having crossed the room to pick up the supplies list that was on the table.

"What formal events?" he asks furiously. I just shrug and rub my eyes, still half-asleep.

"And anyway," Ron continues, " _Harry's_ are nice!" He waves at a simple green set of robes laid out on the table. "Why do mine have to look like - well, _this_?"

"Because...because I had to get yours secondhand, and there wasn't much choice!" Mrs. Weasley shouts, face turning a deep red.

"Why is everything I own rubbish?" Ron whines - I fully expected him to stomp his foot and wave his arms like a toddler throwing a fit.

"Ronald, shut the bloody hell up!" I snap, marching up to him and crossing my arms. "You're acting like a spoiled brat. Your mother would get you something better _if she could_ , so don't you _dare_ throw a fit because you can't have everything in the world! At least you have a roof over your head, food to eat, and a family."

Ron starts to protest, but I cut him off with a glare. "Don't argue. I'm tired and cranky because _someone's_ yelling woke me up…" I glance at the grandfather clock in the corner. "An hour and a half before I was supposed to be up. Bugger off."

Ron gapes at me for a moment before dropping the robes in an unceremonious pile and storming out of the kitchen.

I sigh and pick the bundle up, listening to his footsteps thunder up the stairs.

"Thank you, Orissa," Mrs. Weasley says as she takes the robes from me and lays them next to Harry's. "I'm so sorry about him waking you up - I should've cast a Silencing Charm…"

"It's no problem," I yawn. "Ron's a git sometimes - sorry," I apologize at her stern look. I step around her to get a better look at the robes. "D'you know why we need dress robes?"

"Not entirely," she admits. "But I bought Fred and George some too, and Harry's - I figured I would let you and Hermione shop for your own, since I didn't know what you liked."

I nod, rubbing a hand over my face as I sink into a chair, laying my head on the table with a _thunk._

"Would you like some tea, dear?" Mrs. Weasley asks. "It's the least I can do."

I mutter something against the table, but apparently she takes that as a 'yes' because a little while later I hear the kettle whistle and then the _plink_ of a saucer and cup being put down next to my head. "There you go. Be careful, it's hot."

I mutter my thanks and pick up my head, reaching for the cup.

After I'd finished my tea (if Mrs. Weasley thinks I didn't taste the Pepper-Up Potion, she'd be wrong) I make my way back upstairs, change into the clothes I'd wear until changing into my robes, and return to the kitchen to help Mrs. Weasley with breakfast, since I wasn't getting back to bed anytime soon.

People started trickling down after another half-hour, and I quickly start dishing out the eggs, bangers, and toast Mrs. Weasley had made. About halfway through breakfast, there was a loud chime from the living room, and Percy gets up to investigate.

"Dad!" his voice calls a moment later. "Urgent call for you! It's from work!"

"Coming!" Mr. Weasley rushes downstairs, followed by Harry and George. "Go back in the kitchen, boys. And get the door, would you?"

There's some murmuring coming from the living room followed by some shuffling as Percy comes back into the kitchen, shutting the door firmly behind him.

"What is it?" George demands.

"None of your concern," he says coolly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I really must get to work - Mr. Crouch may be promoting me soon, you know…"

"Yeah, he may even know your name soon!" George calls after his older brother.

"They're talking about Mad-Eye," Ginny, who had an ear pressed against the door, reports as soon as Percy's disappeared up the stairs.

"Mad-Eye Moody?" Fred asks, perking up. "That old nutter? What're they saying?"

"I don't _know_ , Fred, be quiet!"

"Budge over, Gin-Gin, let me listen…"

I lean a little closer to George and whisper, "Who's Mad-Eye Moody?"

"He works at the Ministry," he explains softly. "I met him once, when Dad took Fred and me to work with him." I raise an eyebrow, and he rolls his eyes. "Dad only did it once. Anyways, Mad-Eye's an Auror - kind of a wizard please-men-"

" _Policeman_ ," I correct automatically.

"Right. That. And he's really good at it, too. Half the cells in Azkaban are full because of him. But he's made his fair share of enemies too - families of the captured wizards and such, so he's a bit paranoid. Sees Dark wizards at every turn. Barmy, if you ask me. What're they saying, Fred?"

"That he's been kidnapped," the other twin reports. "They're calling Dad in because he's got muggle rubbish bins shooting off garbage."

George snorts in amusement and glances at me. "See? Barmy."

I chuckle in agreement before standing up. "Harry, help me with the plates. Everyone should probably check their trunks…"

"Yes, Mum," six voices chorus as they all head for the stairs.

I scowl after them but follow, completing one last check of my trunk before grabbing Tyche's cage and tucking it under my arm, taking care not to wake the sleeping owl.

It takes a while to get all six trunks downstairs, as well as two owls (since Hedwig was flying to Hogwarts) and one ornery cat, but we somehow make it outside without major incident.

I wasn't the only one surprised to find three perfectly normal muggle taxicabs waiting when we walked into the muggle village nearest the Burrow.

"I had Bill call them earlier," Mrs. Weasley explains. "They don't look too happy, do they?"

I bite my tongue to keep from explaining that taxi drivers weren't happy about dealing with one mad cat, one hyperactive owl, and the batch of fireworks that went off in Fred's trunk.

The ride into London was cramped, painful, and uncomfortable; Ginny, Mrs. Weasley and I were all stuffed in the backseat of one taxi, along with two trunks and Tyche's cage. To make matters worse, it was beginning to rain, and by the time we got out at King's Cross, I could smell a storm in the air.

We find Platform 9 and 3/4 within minutes and split into groups; the Golden Trio slips through first, followed by the twins and I, and then Ginny and her mother.

The Hogwarts Express was already waiting, magnificent as always and billowing steam everywhere.

"You'll be safe?" Mrs. Weasley asks, ready-eyed, as she hugs us goodbye. "Try not to get in too much trouble, boys - and that means you too, Orissa."

"Yes, Mrs. Weasley," I sigh with my fingers crossed behind my back and a wink at Fred. "Thanks again for letting us stay at the Burrow."

"It's never a problem, dear. I'd invite you to stay over Christmas, but I imagine you'll want to stay because of...certain events."

I narrow my eyes at her suspiciously, but she just gives me a hug and nudges me towards the train. "Go on, you don't want to miss the train."

I hesitate, but I'm cowed by a stern look. I grab my trolley and shove it toward the train, stowing my luggage before climbing on myself.

I track Harry, Ron, and Hermione to a compartment about midway down the train.

"Ron, what was your mum talking about on the platform?"

"Beats me," Ron mutters around a pumpkin pastry – apparently someone had already been to raid the trolley. "It sounded like something was happening over Christmas."

"I'm going to find out, one way or another," I declare boldly. "Just watch."

"Sure, Ori," Hermione replies in that absent tone that parents used on toddlers. I look over to see her with her nose buried in _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4_ , not paying any attention to me. I could've declared that I was going to visit the moon on the back of a flying pig and she wouldn't have noticed.

I roll my eyes and grab my copy of _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection._ If you couldn't beat them…

I had just gotten through the preface when a familiar voice floats into our compartment. "Father wanted me to go to Durmstrang, you know, but Mother wouldn't let me. The education is much better there…Karkaroff won't allow _certain types_ in, if you know what I mean."

I look up to see Draco Malfoy standing in the doorway in all his overly-gelled, smarmy glory. "Hello, Malfoy. Tell me, have your lips healed alright?"

He sneers at me before turning to Ron. "Tell me, Weasley, will you enter?"

I blink, caught off guard by the question. "Sorry?"

"I wasn't talking to _you_ , Black, although I suppose you'd be the type to enter as well…always trying to please your father…"

"Like you aren't?" I scoff. "And I have no idea what you're on about. Either make sense or leave."

"You mean they haven't _told_ you?" Malfoy asks. "My parents told me _weeks_ ago. Maybe your father isn't high enough in the Ministry, Weasley…yes, they wouldn't discuss this in front of him…"

I grit my teeth together. "Malfoy, I'm warning you. Three…"

"Ooh, I'm positively _shaking_."

"Two…"

"What are you going to do, Black? Blow me up?"

"One. _Flipendo!"_

Malfoy goes flying backward, and another jet of light hits him just before Hermione slams the compartment door shut.

I slip my wand back in my pocket and look around to see Ron doing the same. "What did you hit him with?"

He smiles wickedly. "Something Fred and George taught me. He'll be itchy you-know- _where_ for the next week. Nasty rash, that is."

I match his smile. "I know the one." I return to my seat, setting the textbook aside. "But what was he talking about? What does his father know that yours doesn't?"

"Something dark, most likely," Harry suggests snidely.

"It might be the same thing Mrs. Weasley knew about," Hermione suggests.

"So you think Dad knew too and isn't telling us?" Ron asks, and Hermione nods. " _Great_. Nobody tells us anything. Don't we have the right to know? I mean, you're the bloody _Boy-Who-Lived_!"

"Right, because that entitles me to all the information in the world," Harry deadpans.

I roll my eyes. "It could be some tiny thing that you're blowing way out of proportion. Don't get all pissy over it."

Ron slumps into a sulk, and I just watch him for a moment before returning to my book. Ron doesn't talk much for the rest of the train ride, not even when we all get changed into robes and the train stops, the rain now coming down in sheets.

Thankfully, one of the nearby staff members was casting Shielding Charms on students as we got off the train, so thankfully Harry, Hermione, Ron, and I stayed mainly dry as we approached the carriages.

Then something makes me skid to a halt, feet sliding on the wet leaves. "What is _that_?"

Hermione gives me a curious look. "What is what?"

I point. The carriages, which – I _swear_ – had been horseless for the past two years, were now being pulled by one of the strangest creatures I'd ever seen. They look like someone had taken a Pegasus, stripped it down to the literal bare bones, and then stretched a very thin layer of skin over everything.

Hermione follows my gaze and frowns. "Ori…there's nothing there. Are you feeling alright?"

"I'm fine," I assure her, but a quick glance at the boys shows that they don't see anything either.

"This is great," I sigh, turning to Harry as we climb into the carriage. "You hear voices, and I see things."

He gives me a wry smirk. "We're quite the pair, aren't we?"

The carriages rumble up the path towards the castle gates, and soon enough we're all standing in front of the castle steps, hurrying towards the doors.

The castle is as warm, dry, and welcoming as always, and I let out an involuntary sigh as I step into the Entrance Hall.

"Home, sweet home."


	8. Chapter 8

The four of us quickly find seats at the Gryffindor table, near Neville, Seamus, and Dean, Harry and Ron's roommates.

"I heard you got to go the World Cup," Neville says by way of greeting. "How was it?"

"It was brilliant," I grin. "Troy, Mullet, and Moran are possibly the most talented Chasers in the world."

"And look at this…" Ron fishes something out of his pocket – a small figurine of Krum on a tooth-pick sized broomstick.

"Whoa," Neville breathes, eyes lit up, but Seamus frowns and launches into a fierce Ireland vs. Bulgaria debate.

Keeping one ear on them in case I needed to step in and hex someone, I turn my attention to the Great Hall as a whole.

The entire room was abuzz with start-of-term excitement, from the Gryffindors to the Slytherins. The conversations I could hear were mainly about the World Cup, although Colin Creevey, enthusiastic fanboy-stalker extraordinaire, was gushing to Harry about his younger brother, who was apparently about to get sorted.

Up at the staff table, things were much quieter, as three seats were empty: McGonagall's, as she was leading the firsties in; Hagrid's, probably because he was tying up the boats; and the seat where Lupin had sat last year, Lockhart before him, and Quirrell before that.

"I wonder where the new Defense professor is," Hermione wonders aloud.

I shrug, but before I can reply the main doors open, the creaking almost drowning out the thundering of the enchanted ceiling. I look up to see Professor McGonagall leading in a bunch of soaking wet eleven-year-olds, every single one of them absolutely tiny.

"We weren't that small," I deny, looking at Harry. "Were we?"

"You were smaller," he teases as they reach the front of the room and McGonagall sets the Sorting Hat – still as grubby as it was my first year – down on a stool.

Silence reigns for a moment before the hat's brim opens wide and began it's song, singing, as usual, about the founding of Hogwarts and the four Founders, about what each Founder had valued within their chosen pupils.

Once he (she? It?) was done, McGonagall brandishes a list of names and gives the sae instructions I'd imagine she gives every year.

The first name –"Ackerly, Stewart!" – is called, and a trembling first year sits on the stool. The hat doesn't deliberate for long before shouting, "RAVENCLAW!"

The students in blue ties clap and cheer, and I catch Harry staring at their table – more specifically, at their team Seeker.

I hum a few lines of "Kiss the Girl" to myself as "Baddock, Malcolm!" gets sorted into Slytherin and "Branstone, Eleanor!" gets put into Hufflepuff, followed by "Caldwell, Owen!"

"Creevey, Dennis!"

I look up to see a teeny-tiny boy wrapped in Hagrid's coat stumble forward, his eyes bright and excited.

"S'that your brother!" I ask Colin.

"Yep!" Colin exclaims, practically vibrating in his seat. "He fell into the lake!"

"Wonderful," I deadpan, hiding my eye roll behind my cup. I note that Hagrid had walked in and occupied his seat, as gigantic as ever.

"GRYFFINDOR!" the hat shouts, and I cheer with the rest of my housemates as Dennis takes off the hat and runs over to join his brother, excitedly recounting how he'd fallen into the lake and been rescued by the giant squid. The enthusiasm thing was definitely genetic.

"See that boy over there, Dennis? See him? Know who he is, Dennis?"

"For Godric's sake, shut up," I groan under my breath.

I'm saved by Dumbledore standing at his podium, causing the room to go silent almost immediately.

"I have only two words to say to you now," he declares, eyes twinkling. "Tuck in."

Ron groans is appreciation as the Welcoming Feat appears before us, immediately beginning to shovel food down his throat. I follow at a more sedate pace but dig in as well; Hogwarts' food was as magnificent as always.

"You know, I've always wondered who makes the food," I muse. "I've been down to the kitchens loads of times, and I've never seen another witch or wizard."

"That would be because Hogwarts employs house-elves," Nearly-Headless Nick informs me.

Hermione's fork falls from her grasp with a clatter as she stares up at the Gryffindor ghost. "Hogwarts uses _house-elves? Here_?"

"Yes," Nick replies, confused. "The largest amount in wizarding Britain, actually. Why do you ask?"

Hermione looks sick to her stomach as she stares at her food like it had just killed her cat. "This food was made with _slave labor_."

"Oh, come on, 'Mione," I sigh. "I told you – it isn't slavery if the elf's _only_ purpose in life is to serve."

"That doesn't make it any better!" Hermione exclaims, distressed. She looks up at the ghost. "What else are they forced to do?"

"Erm…they do a bit of cleaning, mainly. Tend the fires, do the laundry…"

Hermione slowly puts down her utensils and pushes away her plate. "This isn't right."

"Starving yourself won't help anyone," I point out, but she refuses to eat another bite.

Once dinner and dessert were finished, the food vanished and Dumbledore stood up once again.

"So! Now that you have all been fed and watered-" Hermione scoffed, "-I once again ask for your attention."

"Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to tell you that the list of objects forbidden inside the castle has this year been extended to include Screaming Yo-yos, Fanged Frisbees, and Ever-Bashing Boomerangs," Dumbledore announces, and I look down the table at Fred and George, who give me identical winks. The three of us were responsible for putting a god portion of those items on the list, and every year it became sort of a game to see just how many banned items we could use.

"The full list comprises some four hundred and thirty-seven items, I believe, and can be viewed in Mr. Filch's office, if anybody would like to check it." Dumbledore's gives us a half-smile before continuing. "As always, I would like to remind you all that the Forbidden Forest is, of course, forbidden, as is Hogsmeade for those under third year."

He pauses before adding, "It is also my painful duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup has been canceled this year."

The Hall erupts in outrage – at the Gryffindor table alone, I watch Harry and Ron looking horrified as the twins lose the ability to speak, which is rare in and of itself. Further down the table, Angelina Johnson, my fellow Chaser and newly-minted Captain of the team, looks torn between crying and screaming.

"Silence, please!" Dumbledore hollers, and we all reluctantly lower the nose to a murmur. "This change is due to an event that will begin in October and carry through the school year, needing the utmost devotion from the staff here. This year, Hogwarts will be home to-"

The Headmaster is cut off by a bang as the doors to the Great Hall are flung open, revealing a man momentarily lit up as lightning flashed across the ceiling.

The man is vaguely old, but his skin isn't really wrinkled – it's scarred instead. His face reminds me of a misshapen blob of clay; every inch is marked with some sort of scar, and there's a chunk missing from his nose. The worst part was his eyes – one was small and beady, while the other one was much bigger and an electric blue. It swiveled and spun unnaturally in it's socket, until it flipped entirely around so only the white showed.

The man walked to the only empty seat left at the staff table, his every other step a dull _thunk._ At one point, his cloak lifts slightly, and I spot a wooden leg.

"May I present our newest Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Moody," Dumbledore announces. Usually, new professors are at least greeted with polite applause, but this time the only people clapping are Dumbledore and Hagrid, and they quickly stop.

Moody either doesn't notice or doesn't care.

"As I was saying," Dumbledore continues, "This year, Hogwarts will be home to a very special event that hasn't been held in over a century. This year, Hogwarts is going to be home to the Triwizard Tournament."

"You're joking," Fred gasps, effectively breaking the silence that had settled over the student body since Moody's arrival.

Dumbledore chuckles. "No, Mr. Weasley, I assure you am I not. Although I did hear a good one this summer about a leprechaun and a Veela walking into a bar…"

McGonagall clears her throat, cutting him off.

"Aw, come on! I wanted to hear it!" I protest.

Dumbledore pays me no attention as he continues. "Where was I…ah, yes, the Tournament. I expect that some of you already know what this is, so excuse me while I give a brief summary."

"The Triwizard Tournament is a competition, founded about four hundred years ago, pitting the three largest European schools of magic – Hogwarts, Durmstrang, and Beauxbatons – against one another. The Tournament was held once every five years, and it was a great success…until the death toll reach unacceptable levels."

" _Death toll_?" I hiss, sharing an incredulous look with Hermione.

"Our very own Department of Magical Cooperation and Magical Games and Sports have successfully reinstated the Tournament, and Hogwarts has been chosen as it's host. The heads of the other two schools and a small group of students from each will be arriving here in October, and the final contestant selection will take place on Halloween. An impartial judge will decide who is most worthy of competing for the glory of their school, a thousand Galleons, and the Triwizard Cup."

"I'm going for it," Fred hisses.

"However," Dumbledore continues, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the whispers that had broken out around the Hall, "the heads of the schools, along with the Ministry of Magic, have agreed to impose an age restriction on contenders. This means that only students who are of age – that is, seventeen years or older – may enter their name for consideration."

"I'm still going for it," Fred whispers, now sounding furious.

"Don't you dare," I hiss, leaning over the table slightly. "I _will_ tell your mother."

"Aw, c'mon, Blackie," he pushes. "Wouldn't you want to enter."

"No thank you, I would rather not _die_ ," I snap, turning my attention back to Dumbledore as he began to speak again.

"This is necessary because the tasks presented will be difficult and dangerous, no matter the precautions we take, and only a sixth or seventh year will be able to handle them. Great care will be taken to screen the entrants, so I implore you to not waste your time entering if you are underage," Dumbledore orders, his twinkling eyes resting on Fred and George for a moment.

"The other schools will be arriving in October and staying with us for the greater part of the year. I expect you to show them the greatest hospitality and show the utmost support the Hogwarts champion, whoever he or she may be. Now," he concludes, "it is late, and you must all be rested tonight, as lessons begin tomorrow. Off to bed! Chop chop!"

There's the sound of wood scraping against stone as the students begin to file out, chattering excitedly about the Triwizard Tournament.

"I'm still going to try and enter," Fred decides as we leave the Hall. "Think of what you could do with the prize money, eh?"

"Maybe," I shrug. "Personally, I would rather not risk my head to win the favor of those around me, but it's your choice."

"I'd enter if I were seventeen," Ron says. "One thousand galleons…"

I roll my eyes and speed up to fall in step with Hermione. I'd rather take her sullen, house-elf induced silence over their idiocy any day.

When we reach the portrait hole, our group splits into different directions: Fred and George hurry off to their dorms, probably thinking up ways to fool the "impartial judge". Ron and Hermione head up to their dorms, each lost in their thoughts.

I make a quick detour, grabbing a roll of parchment and a quill before heading up to the owlrey.

 _Dear Padfoot –_ I write –

 _I've arrived at school safely, as has Harry, and Ron and Hermione. Hope you're safe, and that you haven't managed to do anything dangerous without Moony there._

 _Did you_ _hear about what happened at the World Cup? I'm surprised you weren't frantically owling me. I'm fine, don't worry; I wasn't injured physically, at least. Mentally…is another story._

 _School's fine so far – we get to host the Triwizard Tournament this year! It sounds really exciting, but I'm glad I can't enter. Dumbledore used the words "death toll" to describe it._

 _Please stay safe, and don't worry about me._

 _-Pup_

 _P.S.: I want a cool nickname too! You've got Padfoot, what do I get?_

I roll up the parchment and call Tyche over, tying the letter to her leg and quickly nudging her out the nearest window. "Take that to Padfoot, alright?"

She hoots at me before taking off into the night. I watch her go for a moment before leaving the tower, quickly making my way back to the Common Room just before curfew.

I climb the staircase to the girls' dorm and enter the one for my year, trying not to let myself linger on the empty bed just to the right of mine. Last year it had belonged to Fay Dunbar, a schoolyard bully that had tried to murder me last June – and she'd come damn close to succeeding, too.

 _But she'd been expelled,_ I remind myself as I change into my pajamas and climb into bed. _This is a new year._

A new year, indeed.


	9. Chapter 9

**Uh, well...hello. I'm not dead, but I have no excuses for the hideously long hiatus, other than this: I've had this chapter written for months, and just forgot that I hadn't _posted_ it yet.**

* * *

The storm had quieted down by the next morning, and the sun was out by the time Harry, Hermione and I came down for breakfast. McGonagall had passed out course schedules, and I was pleased to see that mine _didn't_ include Divination.

"Today's not too bad," Ron declares. "We're outside all morning."

I glance at my own schedule – we had Herbology with the Hufflepuffs and then Care of Magical Creatures with, unfortunately, the Slytherins – and then out the window. "Everything's still damp, though."

"It won't be that way for long," Hermione assures me, slathering butter on her toast. "We're inside this afternoon, though."

"I've got Double Divination," Harry groans. I give him a sympathetic look – Trelawney was a drunken old fraud that kept predicting phony deaths.

"You should've dropped it like me," Hermione says, also slathering jam on her toast.

"I did," I offer, sliding my schedule towards her. "We've got Double Runes together after lunch."

"Really?" Hermione scans my schedule. "Ori, that's brilliant! But how did you do it?"

"It was easy," I shrug. "I owled McGonagall asking to drop Divination, and she accepted and got me in contact with Professor Babbling, who agreed." I glance around us before leaning in closer and lowering my voice to a whisper. "Turns out, Snuffles was good at Runes when he was here. He helped me pass some advanced placement tests to put me in with the fourth year class."

"That's amazing, 'Rissa," Hermione beams. "I knew you could do something more than just staring into a crystal ball all day."

I nod, directing my attention upwards as the morning mail arrives with a flood of owls. I watch carefully, but I can't find any black in the sea if tawny and gray. I try and shove away the disappointment that begins to settle in my stomach – it was probably fine. Tyche might've gotten delayed by the storm, and Dad could've just not received my letter yet.

But the disappointment settles nonetheless, and it lasts all the way out to greenhouse three, where Professor Sprout gives me an excuse to stab and slice things, all in the name of extracting Bubotuber pus from the slug-like plants. I was absolutely horrible in Herbology since it usually required a delicate touch I lacked, but this was – to be quite honest – a bit like popping zits. Huge, squishy, pus-filled plant zits.

The class was over fairly quickly, as did Care of Magical Creatures, although the latter was far more deadly. A word to the wise: don't do Blast-Ended Skrewts. Just don't. They're like a three in one package of pain: they bite, they suck blood, and they're liable to blow up in your face, as the name implies. And, as Malfoy so helpfully pointed out, they're about as useful as a flobberworm.

Blast-Ended Skrewts: a really bad idea. I loved Hagrid, I really did, but just…no.

By the time I re-entered the castle for lunch, I was hot, tired, and more than a bit exasperated. Harry, Ron, Hermione and I all quickly found seats and began helping ourselves to lamb chops and potatoes.

I stared at Hermione as she began to eat it a matter more befitting of Ron; that is, so quickly I thought she would choke. "Is this some new protest method? Making yourself choke and enter martyrdom?"

"No," Hermione mumbles around a mouthful of potatoes. "I jus' wanna get to the library."

"But it's the first day!" I whine. "You don't have any homework yet!"

"I know," she says cryptically before returning to her quest to inhale her entire meal. She springs up a moment later, grabbing her bag and hollering goodbye over her shoulder as she takes off.

I watch her go with a shake of my head.

At the bell signaling the end of lunch, I bid Harry and Ron goodbye and make my way to a classroom on the second floor, surprised to find Hermione already there and saving me a seat.

"Did you find whatever you were looking for?" I ask as I set my bag down.

"Maybe," she replies cryptically just as Professor Babbling walks in and begins the class.

From the letters I'd sent over summer, she sounded like a kind witch, although stern; she wouldn't accept anything less than your best work, but if you truly couldn't do something, she would gladly offer help.

"Today, we will be reviewing concepts from last year, just in case. For those of you that either weren't with us…" her eyes meet mine, "or paid no attention." She looks directly at a Ravenclaw boy in the back of the class. "Now, you'll find the necessary tools on your desks. Please prepare them accordingly."

The "necessary items", it turns out, were a slab of clay, about six inches square, and a little tool that had a scalpel-like blade at one end and a rounded stump at the other.

"Open your textbooks to page 15 and we'll begin…"

An hour and a half later, my fingers were cramped and I had clay under my fingernails, but I was wearing a smile. My clay slab contained the entire Nordic Runic alphabet, a rune for speed, and one for joy, which was more than a few of my classmates – except for Hermione, of course, who had managed to complete a minor shielding ward set.

"Come on," she says, packing her books away. "We should go to dinner before Ron eats half the food in the castle."

"I'm just glad you're eating again," I comment idly as I _Scourgify_ 'd my nails clean. "This was fun, by the way."

"Isn't it?" she gushes. "Runes are so simple, but you can do so much, like shielding and warding and amulet-making and…"

She continues to talk until we get down to the Great Hall, where everyone was lined up for dinner.

"Imagine them not even getting his name right, Weasley," Malfoy's voice says from around the corner. "It's almost as though he's a complete nonentity, isn't it?"

I stop dead in my tracks, shushing Hermione as I pulled her back so that we were hidden behind the wall.

Malfoy continues, and the Great Hall was nearly silent as everyone listened. " _Arnold Weasley, who was charged with possession of a flying car two years ago, was yesterday involved in a tussle with several Muggle law-keepers ("policemen") over a number of highly aggressive dustbins…"_

The article continues, and once Malfoy was done, he adds, "And there's a picture, Weasley! A picture of your parents outside their house — if you can call it a house! Your mother could do with losing a bit of weight, couldn't she?"

I take this as my cue and step from behind the wall to see Harry and Hermione both hold Ron back as he shook with fury.

"And _your_ mother could use a personality change, couldn't she, Malfoy?"

The Slytherin whips around to face me. "Don't talk about my mother, Black. And you were there as well – tell me, is she always that pudgy, or is it the picture?"

"Is your father always an arse, or is it just when he's awake?" I counter, smirking.

"Stop insulting my family, blood-traitor."

"Don't insult my friends, you git," I reply, twirling my wand between my fingers as Hermione drags Ron away, Malfoy's attention fully on Harry and I. "At least _Ron's_ dad does honest work. What's yours do, sit around paying Ministry officials off?"

"That's more than yours does," he hisses. "He's probably drunk as we speak. And Potter, your father – oh, wait, you don't _have_ one!"

Harry lunges forward, but I catch the back of his robes. "You might want to shut up, Malfoy, before you say something your wand can't back up."

And with that, I turn to walk away, nudging Harry ahead of me.

I should've known better than to turn my back on Malfoy.

A loud _BANG_ fills the hallway and a flash of white light goes off to my left. I whip around, reaching into my pocket for my wand, but before I can get it out, a second _BANG_ echoes the first one, followed by a shout.

"OH NO YOU DON'T, LADDIE!"

Mad-Eye Moody was limping down the stairs, wand pointed at a quivering white ferret on the ground where Malfoy had been a moment before.

"Did he get you?" Mad-Eye asks Harry and I.

"No," Harry mutters, while I shake my head. "He missed."

"LEAVE IT!" Moody barks.

I take a step back. "Sorry – _what?_ "

"Not you – him!" he nods towards where Crabbe was approaching the ferret. He turns back to ferret-Malfoy, flicking his wand at him and making the ferret fly up in the air, bounce, and repeat.

" _You – don't – attack – someone – when – their – back – is – turned!"_ Moody bellows, punctuating each word with another bounce. "Filthy coward! I oughta-"

"Professor Moody!" a shocked voice called. Professor McGonagall was approaching fast. " _What_ are you doing?"

"Professor McGonagall," Moody says calmly, the ferret-Malfoy bouncing higher and higher, "Teaching."

"Teach _–_ _Moody, is that a student?_ "

"Yep."

"No!" McGonagall rushes forward, raising her wand. With a loud _crack_ , the ferret disappeared and Malfoy sat there, looking flushed as he stood with a wince.

"Moody, we _never_ use Transfiguration as a punishment," McGonagall says weakly. "Surely Dumbledore mentioned this?"

"He might've, yeah," Moody says, sounding unconcerned, "but I thought a good shock-"

"Then report to the student's Head of House! Or give a detention!"

Moody's eye – both of them – fixes on Malfoy, whose eyes were still watering from pain and humiliation. "I might just do that. Your Head of House would be Snape, then?"

"Yes," Malfoy boldly. "My father will hear about this, mark my words."

"Let him," Moody growls. "I know exactly who your father is, boy. Snape too. Come on, then."

And the two disappeared down the corridor. McGonagall watches them go for a moment before turning to the assembled crowd. "Move along, all of you. There is nothing to see here."

"Don't talk to me," Ron whispers as we sit down with our food a few minutes later.

"Why not?" Hermione asks.

"I want to remember that forever," he murmurs, a silly grin breaking out on his face.

"Draco Malfoy: The Amazing Bouncing Ferret," I grin, raising my hands as if seeing it on a billboard.

"He really could've hurt Malfoy, though," Hermione protests. "It was good, really, that McGonagall stopped it when she did."

"Shh!" I admonish. "You're ruining the best moment of my life!"

Hermione just scoffed at me and began eating at top speed again.

"Back the library, again?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. "Professor Babbling didn't give us homework."

"It's not for homework," she mutters before taking off.

Just as she leaves, Fred, George, and Lee Jordan approach the table. "Good evening, Harry, Ronniekins, Blackie."

"Don't call me that," I sigh. "But, hey, quick idea."

"Yes, _Blackie_?" Fred asks.

I grit my teeth at him but then grin. "Ferret Fritters. Like Canary Creams, but-"

"-ferrets," George finishes. "That's bloody amazing. Where'd you get the idea?"

I share a look with Ron. "Malfoy, actually."

The twins give me an odd look. "Fine, then don't tell us."

I roll my eyes. "Did you want something, Weasley?"

"Yeah, Black," Fred fires back. "Moody. How cool is he?"

"Really cool," George replies.

"The coolest," Jordan adds. "We had him this afternoon."

"What's he like?" I ask.

"Brilliant," George admits breathlessly. "Scary, but brilliant."

"He _knows_ ," Fred gushes. "You know?"

"Knows?" I repeat. "Knows what? How to be a moron? A talentless fake? A possessed fool?"

"Not this time," George says cheerfully. "He knows what it's like, y'know? To be out there, on the front lines."

I quickly dig in my pockets and pull out my schedule. "We haven't got him till Friday."

"You're missing out," George shrugs.

"He sounds like a good teacher, though," Harry offers. "Really hands-on."

I snort at that but nod in agreement. While no one would quite match up with Moony (as Remus said I could call him), a teacher that knew, first-hand, what it was like to be "out there"? That knew that just because we were young, didn't mean we couldn't fight? He sounded like a good idea to me.

Plus, he _did_ turn Malfoy into a ferret.

 _Yeah,_ I grin. _Definitely a good idea._


	10. Chapter 10

**7/2/17 - I edited the letter from Padfoot a bit. Nothing major, but it'll come up when discussing Marauder nicknames later.**

* * *

The next three days passed without major incident, unless you count the first Potions lesson of the year, in which Malfoy caused Neville to melt a cauldron and I flung a firework into Malfoy's in return, docking twenty points from Gryffindor before we even earned any.

On Friday morning, I was awoken by a high-pitched voice squeaking, "Happy birthday to yous! Happy birthday to yous! Happy birthday Missy Riss-sy, happy birthday to yous!"

"Turn off the alarm," a voice groans from my right.

"Stuff it, Patil," I grumble in response, cracking open an eye to see a small, wrinkled creature standing on the end of my bed. "Dobby?"

"Missy Rissy is awake!" he squeaks. "It is being you's birthday!"

I open my other eye, blink slowly, and twist to look at the Muggle calendar Hermione had hanging over her bed, finding today's date – September 5th. Hermione had it circled in red, which made me smile.

"Huh. I guess it is. Thanks," I yawn, slipping my slippers on and grabbing my wand as I leave the dorm, trudging down the steps to plop bonelessly on one of the overstuffed couches. A quick _Tempus_ reveals that it's about 7:30, a half an hour before I had to go down for breakfast.

So I sink into the couch and watch the fire, letting my mind wander to the year before.

On September 5th, 1993, my world got upended. Before my 13th birthday, I had believed myself to be Allison Potter. Thanks to some strong concealment charms, I even looked the part. But there was a catch: on my thirteenth birthday, the magic would fade, like some modern-day Cinderella. And by the time my birthday was over, I'd gotten the "Surprise! You're really the daughter of a mass-murderer!" talk from Dumbledore.

Of course, Dad wasn't really a mass-murderer, but I didn't figure that out till June.

"Orissa?"

I look up to see Hermione looking at me curiously, and I realize she's said my name a few times. "Yeah? Just got lost in my thoughts, sorry."

"Penny for them?"

"Just last year," I smirk, and she snorts.

"Here's to a better birthday. Happy birthday, by the way," she offers.

"Thanks." I give her a grin. "I'm gonna go get dressed. Be right back."

I head back upstairs, bidding my dorm mates good morning before calling dibs on the first shower. I jump through at light speed and quickly don my uniform, bolting back downstairs to meet Hermione in the Common Room, now joined by Harry and Ron, who both wish me a sleepy 'Happy birthday.'

We quickly make our way down to breakfast, Ron in the lead with a growling stomach. I find us all seats at the table, accepting a few more well-wishes from those at the table.

"What's today look like?" I ask, grabbing a muffin and stuffing half of it in my mouth. "'Eve 'ot 'effese, 'ight?"

"Honestly, Ori," Hermione admonishes. "Sometimes you're as bad as Ron."

"'Ey!" Ron protests around a mouthful of pastry.

I roll my eyes and pointedly swallow as Hermione answers my question. "Yes, we do have Defense, but that's not until after lunch. We've got Transfiguration and Charms first."

"Cool," I mutter before stuffing my face again.

"Budge over! Budge over, everyone!" Fred and George worm their way into seats at the table. "Important people coming through!"

"Who? I don't see anyone important," I tease.

"Ha, ha," George laughs. "Morning, Blackie. Happy birthday, old pal."

"Thanks, numbskull," I grin.

"We come bearing gifts!" Fred announces dramatically, setting a bag on the table that was an eye-scorching shade of orange.

"You shouldn't have," I smirk. I pull the bag closer, moving my plate aside to lay the contents out.

Inside there was a new batch of Dr. Filibusters Fireworks, a few fake wands, and the first stages of plans for Ferret Fritters.

"This is brilliant," I exclaim, flipping through the pages. "Thanks, boys."

"No problem," the chorus. "Anything for a fellow prankster."

I give them a smile, directing my attention upwards as the morning mail comes in. I spot Tyche as she flies in, swooping down towards me with a medium-sized cylindrical package and a letter in her talons.

"What is it?" Hermione asks as Tyche lands, gobbling down the bit of muffin I feed her with a friendly hoot and taking off again for the owlery.

I open the letter first, my heart lifting at the first few lines.

 _Pup-_

 _Glad to hear you've arrived safely. Here's to the start of a good term, eh? Give Hogwarts hell for me._

 _Yes, I did hear about the World Cup. Followers of You-Know-Who were deadly in the First War. Please, please be careful. They aren't playing around._

 _Glad to hear school's alright. The Tournament sounds wicked – I've only read about it in books._

 _There isn't much more to do here – just read and clean and read some more._

 _As for the nickname_ _\- I called you Padlet when you were a baby; it means "little Padfoot". But as you aren't so little anymore, you could always make up your own nickname, if you like - Prongs was always a big fan of "Paws"._

 _-Padfoot_

"Padlet," I breathe. "Little Padfoot."

"What was that, Ori?"

"Nothing." I look up at Hermione, tucking the letter away. "What's that?" I ask, looking at the package on the table in front of us.

"Dunno," Ron shrugs. "Who's the letter from?"

"Snuffles," I answer simply, tucking the parchment away and reaching for the parcel. I make quick work of the paper, tearing it away to reveal a brown leather item that looked a bit like the forearm pieces in my Quidditch uniform, only without the hand part and with a small tube running along the bottom.

"Here's a note," Hermione announces. "Happy Birthday," she reads. "This is a wand holster – it straps onto your opposite arm and your wand goes into the bottom. A little bird (with glasses) told me you were a pretty good duelist. Sorry I couldn't get you more. Enjoy." She raises an eyebrow. "It's not signed."

"It doesn't need to be," I retort, picking up the holster and rolling up the sleeves on my left arm. It straps on easily enough, and I'm pleased to find that it self-adjusts. It fits nicely from my wrist to the bend in my arm. I slide my wand into the tube at the bottom and then slide it back out again, like a knight might draw a sword.

"Brilliant!" Ron exclaims. "That'll make sure you don't lose your wand again."

"Don't remind me," I groan, shaking my robes down around the holster – it was hidden perfectly. "Right, then. Let's get to class. I do _not_ want to be late to Moody's class."

The other three quickly shovel down the rest of their breakfasts and pack their bags; I quickly holster my wand, grab my own bag, and lead the way out of the Great Hall.

The Defense classroom hadn't changed over the summer; save for the removal of Remus' personal effects, it looked exactly as it had in June.

Shaking off the memories of the previous year, I take a seat near the back of the classroom and prop my feet up on the desk – "brilliant" as this man may be, I had made it my personal mission to put every new teacher I had through proverbial hell. If they couldn't withstand me, then how did they expect to handle the Slytherins? And besides, pestering teachers was in my blood.

I ignore Hermione's disapproving glare, focusing instead on the telltale _thump-thump-thump_ of wood against stone that announced Moody's arrival just before the door is flung open.

The ex-Auror cast an imposing shadow over the room, his beady eye squinting at each and every one of us while the fake eye spun wildly around the room, almost as if he was trying to look at everything at once.

Moody's eye finds me soon enough, and with a quick flick of his wand, he shoves my feet off the desk, sending me tumbling to the floor in a flailing bundle of limbs. I hit the floor with a grunt, quickly making sure I wasn't hurt before lifting my eyes to look at the professor.

"You'd be Sirius Black's daughter," he growls. "Aren't you?"

I nod silently, not moving my eyes from his face.

Mad-Eye Moody nods sharply and gives me a long look, both of his eyes boring into mine intensely, like he was searching for something – insanity, maybe? Was he already trying to compare me and my dad?

Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't; I'd never know, because Moody turns around and thumps back to his desk. "You can put your books away," he announces, taking a seat at his desk. "You won't be needing them."

I can't help the grin that breaks out on my face as I pick myself up off the floor. No books on the first Defense lesson of the year sounded like a good birthday present to me.

"Now," Moody continues once we were back in order and roll had been called, "Professor Lupin has told me what he can about this class. I understand that you have a decent understanding of Dark creatures – hinkypunks, Kappas, werewolves, and the like?"

There a general murmur of agreement from the class before he continues. "But you're behind – extremely behind – on curses. That's my job. I'm only here as a favor to Dumbledore, so I've got one year to show you what wizards can do to each other before I go back to my quiet retirement."

"Sorry to tear you away from your precious attack bins," I mutter under my breath.

"What was that, Ms. Black?" Moody asks, his magical eye fixing itself on me.

"Nothing," I deny, the one word forming a mortifyingly high-pitched yelp. I wasn't going to lie: somewhere in the deepest corners of my mind, something was a tiny bit afraid this man. Hell if I'd admit that, though.

"Now," Moody continues. "Let's get on with it. Curses. There are several kinds, of course, all varying in strength. You have your minor hexes and jinxes – those are harmless, really, won't cause you more than a little discomfort. I can see you grinning, Miss Black."

I blink in surprise from my seat – halfway across the classroom and currently _behind_ Mad-Eye. But I straighten out my mouth anyways, crossing my arms petulantly.

"And then," the professor continues, "you have your mid-level curses. They'll do more damage – usually a concussion or a broken bone or two. Repeated uses of a mid-level curse _could_ kill your target, but it's not a sure thing."

"Now," the professor growls. "The Ministry wants me to leave it there. They say you don't to need to know about the _real_ Dark curses – not until sixth year, they say. Well, I say that's the biggest pile of dung I've seen in a while," he snorts.

"You're never too young to be attacked by a Dark Wizard. They aren't going to care if you're fourteen or twenty-four. And they aren't going to explain what they're doing before they attack. You need to know what you're facing out there. You need to stay on your toes. Remember, CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" he roars, causing more than one student to fall out of their chairs in shock. A few of the girls in the class even squeal in fear.

I just press a hand to my ear, cursing – for the first time – my decision to become an Animagus. Being a part-time dog meant I had really excellent hearing, which meant _that_ was incredibly loud.

"Luckily for you," Moody continues, once everyone's gathered themselves together and my ears have stopped ringing, "Dumbledore thinks you're made of sterner stuff. Who can tell me what one of the three Dark curses are?"

The entire class nervously shifts for a moment before Ron speaks. "Uh, my dad told me about one. It was called the...Imperius Curse or something?"

"Ah, yes," Moody smiles – an expression which somehow serves to make his grizzled and scarred face _more_ terrifying. "Your dad would know that one...it gave the Ministry quite a hassle, a few years back."

Moody moves around his desk and opens one of the drawers, pulling out a jar full of spiders. I glance over at Ron to see him dangerously pale. I couldn't imagine what must be going through his head right now.

Moody opens the jar and lets one of the spiders crawl onto his hand, jabbing his wand at it. _"Imperio!"_

"The Imperius Curse gives you the ability to control your target," the professor explains as the spider hops up and down on his hand, copying the movements Moody was making with his wand. "I can make her do whatever I want – dance," he chuckles as, with a swish of his wand, the spider launches into an elaborate tap dance on the dance, then a series of cartwheels.

The class laughs, but we're quickly silenced as Moody makes the spider dangle itself over a barrel of water, forcing it closer and closer to the water.

 _The spider could drown itself,_ I realize, _and it would never know._

"Total control," Moody whispers gravelly. "I can make it throw itself out the window, drown itself, shove itself down one of your throats…"

I shudder, and a few chairs away, Ron gags.

Moody cancels the spell and lets the spider back in the jar. "That one gave us quite a lot of trouble, years ago. Certain Death Eaters claimed that they served You-Know-Who while under the Imperius. Bull, if you ask me," Moony mutters, then clears his throat. "Right. Who knows another curse?"

The class stays quiet for a moment, giving each other clueless looks, before a quiet voice speaks up from a few seats behind me.

"The Cruciatus," Neville whispers quietly.

Moody nods, giving Neville an inquiring look. "Your name's Longbottom, right?"

Neville nods nervously, but Moody just gives him the same look he gave me before returning to his desk.

"The boy is right. The Cruciatus Curse is one of the most dangerous Dark curses." Moody grabs another spider from the jar and, after a moment of consideration, enlarges the spider to the size of a dinner plate.

Ron immediately abandons all pretenses and shoves his chair back, scrambling away from Mad-Eye's desk as fast as he could.

The professor pays him no mind, simply leveling his wand at the enlarged spider and bellowing, _"Crucio!"_

A key of orange light erupts from the tip of his wand and hits the spider, and the effects are immediate; the spider twitches and writhes in pain – if spiders could scream, I was entirely sure this one would be hoarse already.

A strangled sound comes from behind me, and I twist in my seat to see Neville gripping the edge of his desk, eyes wide and face paler than Nearly-Headless Nick.

Something wasn't right. I didn't know what, but something _was not right._

"Stop it," I request politely, but the professor doesn't seem to hear me. I try again, louder, and still nothing.

"Oh, come _on_ ," I mutter, standing up quickly enough to make my chair tip over and making my way back to Neville, clasping a firm hand around the boy's clammy, cold wrist.

He lets out a small scream but whips around to look at me, his eyes focusing on me instead of the spider.

"Hey," I greet with a small grin. "You're okay. It's okay."

Neville looks at me, then tentatively over my shoulder, then back at me, and nods. "I'm…alright." He then seems to realize my hand is still on his wrist, and he pulls back like he's been burnt. "Th-thanks, O-Ori," he stutters.

"No problem," I shrug and turn around to see Moody putting the still-twitching spider back into the jar.

"Nasty, that," Moody sighs. "The Cruciatus Curse is the most effective way of delivering pain by magic. It's also known as the 'Torture Curse', mainly because the Death liked to send people into flat-out insanity by prolonged exposure. It's only got one other use…" Moody pauses, and his eyes fix on mine. "It's been common practice to put prisoners of Azkaban under the Cruciatus for centuries."

My stomach drops to the floor, and the room seems to spin. _It's been common practice to put prisoners of Azkaban under the Cruciatus for centuries..._ Dad. Dad had been put under the 'Torture Curse' for twelve years. It was a bloody miracle the man wasn't insane.

Over the summer, while it had just been Dad, Kreacher and I in Grimmauld Place, every so often, I could hear Dad wake up in the middle of the night screaming. (I had no doubt he woke up more often than I heard, but I figured he'd put up a Silencing Charm. Whenever I tried to ask him about the nightmares, or try to help, he'd clam up and assume a light, carefree mask.

Was this what he dreamed of? Endless pain and suffering? As if Azkaban, from what little he'd told me about it, wasn't bad enough.

I'm jolted from my thoughts by a hand on my shoulder, and I look up to see Neville, with his face flushed red, watching me intently. "Orissa?" he whispers. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I whisper back. "Thank you."

He blushes and mutters a 'no problem', and I turn back to the lesson just in time for Moody to introduce the last curse.

"The Killing Curse," he announces gravelly. "It's nasty, quick, and inescapable; there's no shield that can stop it, no way to deflect it, no way to survive being hit. In fact, only one person has ever survived the Killing Curse, and he's sitting in this very room."

This, of course, draws every single eye in the room to Harry, who looks like he wants to crawl under his desk and die.

I take the initiative and clear my throat. "He's not really that great, guys," I announce in an overly-loud voice. "A scrawny little bugger, if you ask me."

Nervous laughter rippled across the room, and Harry gives me a relieved look, which I return with a wink.

"Pipe down, Black," Moody barks. "Back to business, everyone." He scoops the last spider, who seemed flighty and nervous, almost as if it could sense what was coming, out of the jar.

Moody traps the spider on the desk, aims his wand, and bellows, _"Avada Kedavra!"_

There's a flash of green light, a sort of swooshing sound in the air, and then...silence. That's it. The spider is dead, right on top of the desk, but there's no fanfare, no sound at all. No twitching, no spasming. The spider just...went limp.

I glance over to see Harry as pale as Neville had been, eyes wide and transfixed on the desk.

He'd just witnessed his parents' execution for the first time in memory, I realize with a jolt. Five minutes ago, he hadn't known _how_ his parents died. And I knew he still had nightmares about that flash of green light.

I reach over to squeeze his hand. "Harry. You alright?"

He slowly turns to look at me, green eyes – almost the same shade as that curse – looking more lost than I'd seen them in a while.

But he clears his throat and blinks. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

I roll my eyes at him but lean back in my chair, returning my eyes to the front of the class.

The rest of the class passes in a blur – the Unforgivable Curses are, of course, Unforgivable, and Very Very Bad, yadda, yadda, yadda. Soon enough, I was following the rest of the class out into the hallway, shoving through the crowd and trying to ignore the students that were enthralled by the curses we'd just seen.

What did I expect? _They_ didn't have loved ones that had been tortured, or even _killed,_ by the bloody spells.

I round a corner in the staircase to see Neville sitting on a windowsill, staring off into space.

"Hey, I-" I start, blinking as he jumps, almost falling off his perch. "Woah, you okay? Didn't mean to scare you."

"I…" he falters. "You didn't. I just wasn't paying attention. Have you heard what they're having for lunch in the Great Hall? I'm starving."

"Um…" I bite my lip, startled by the change in subject. "Finger sandwiches, I think. That's what Ron told me, anyway. Neville, are you okay?"

"Are you?" he challenges with more force in his voice than I heard since he threatened to fight me in first year.

"Not right now," I admit, stuffing my hands into the pocket of my robes. "Hearing that your parent got tortured by something like that...it isn't anything you get over."

"Trust me, I know," he mutters caustically, and I give him a confused look, but before I can say anything our conversation is interrupted by Harry, Ron, and Hermione approaching.

"There you are!" Hermione exclaims. "I was so worried – Neville, are you alright?"

"Ah, yeah," he murmurs. "Thank you, but I should be going…"

Just as Neville stands up, though, Moody's signature thumping sounds behind us, just before the professor himself appears.

"There you are. Longbottom, how are you feeling?"

"Fine, sir." Neville blushes, ducking his head. "I'm sorry for breaking down in class."

"Understandable," Moody dismisses, then turns to Harry and I. "And you two?"

"I'll be alright, sir," Harry promises, and I nod.

"Good. It's a painful process, but you need to know, you understand. _You need to know."_

I nod – because that much, I agreed with. With the Death Eaters and Voldemort posing the threat that they did right now, we needed to know what we were up against. And it wasn't _Moody's_ fault that two of the three Unforgivables brought up traumatic memories.

"Longbottom, would you like to join me for tea?" Moody invites. "I have some books I want you to look at."

"Uh, sure, Professor."

"Black? Potter?"

"No thanks, sir," I decline. "I've got a ton of homework to do tonight."

Moody nods and leads Neville away, thumping down the hallway towards his room.

I turn in the other direction and hitch my bag higher on my shoulder. "Come on," I instruct my friends. "We've got lunch."

At the word "lunch", Ron practicality runs down the stairs, forcing the rest of us to keep up or be left behind.

Just before the classroom disappears from sight, I give it one last backward glance.

That tiny piece of me that was scared of Mad-Eye Moody had just grown a bit. And I just had the oddest feeling that there was something...off about the man.

 _But that's nothing,_ I scold myself. _You're just being paranoid._

And I take off after my friends, shoving all thoughts of green and orange lights to the back of my mind.


	11. Chapter 11

"You're going to die. You going to suffer a horrible, gruesome death."

"…no."

"What do you mean, _no_?"

"I mean, we already used that one, Ron."

"What? No!" the redheaded boy argues. "I would've remembered!"

"It's right here," Harry defends, pointing at the parchment between the two boys. "See?"

"Oh." Ron deflates. "Right."

"Boys," I huff quietly from a table a few feet away, Hermione looking up from her book long enough to nod in agreement before returning to whatever she was studying.

It was just after dinner on my birthday – the four of us had retired to the Common Room to work on homework and study a bit, taking a moment to breathe after the day we'd had. Ron and Harry had chosen to work on their Divination homework and were currently making up crazy death predictions that Trelawney would probably believe. Hermione was study something she'd picked up from the library earlier, but she refused to tell me just what it was. I had already gotten my Runes homework done, but I wasn't going to even _touch_ Potions. Not tonight.

Ever since the disastrous DADA lesson with Moody, I couldn't shake the image of Dad being tortured from my mind. It was tough to express – there was no definite evidence he'd been tortured while in Azkaban, but he most likely was. I was eighty percent sure, even, that he'd suffered the Cruciatus. But then, if that was true, then why wasn't he insane? After all, Moody had said that long-term exposure could drive you insane. And then add in the Dementor effects…

"-issa. Orissa!" Hermione exclaims, and I blink and raise an eyebrow at her. "I've been calling your name for the last five minutes. What were you thinking about?"

"Nothing," I sigh, stretching out my legs. "It's nothing. What did you think of Moody?" I deflect smoothly, trying to change the subject.

It didn't work – Hermione pursued her original question with dogged determination. "Is this about…Snuffles and the Cruciatus?"

"Of course it's not," I scoff loudly. "Why would that bit of news affect me, Hermione? Hmm?"

Hermione blinks slowly, then sighs. "Has anyone ever told you that you get vindictive when you're mad?"

"Once or twice," I grumble, slouching in my chair.

"Look, Ori," Hermione starts, closing her book and lowering her voice. "Why don't you just write Sirius about this? I'm sure he'd be happy to answer your questions."

"How would that letter go?" I hiss incredulously. "' _Hey, Dad, thanks for the birthday present! Also, were you tortured horrendously in Azkaban? I'm asking because a professor demonstrated some very illegal curses in class. Love you!_ '"

"Not in those exact words," Hermione retorts. "You and I both know you've got more tact than that."

"Leave it, 'Mione," I sigh, closing my eyes and rubbing them with a hand. "My dad's got enough on his plate right now. He needs to get better. I don't need to make it worse with a load of questions that will most likely send him spiraling into a pit of despair."

"Quit being so dramatic," Hermione scolds. "The choice is yours. You can write him, or you can not."

And with that utterly final statement, Hermione opens her book again, effectively cutting the conversation short and blocking me out.

"You do that," I mutter, rocking my chair back and standing up, fully intent on heading upstairs and going to bed. But, just as I was standing up, something catches my eye: in the back corner of the Common Room, where the light from the fire can't quite reach, there were two shadows bent over a piece of parchment – two _identical_ shadows.

I frown to myself. What were Fred and George doing over in the corner, away from the center of attention? And why hadn't they asked me for help or input on whatever that was? They knew I wasn't afraid to bend rules if legality is what made them squirrel themselves away.

Deciding to investigate, I step around the table and pad over to their corner, keeping quiet until I was just behind George's shoulder. "What are you doing?"

George screams and jumps up, trying to cover up whatever was on the parchment. "We weren't doing – oh. It's just you."

"Just me," I agree with a nod. "Whatcha doing? You didn't ask me for anything."

"R-Right," Fred stammers. "Um, well, you see, this is kind of illegal, and we don't need your-"

I silence him by slapping a hand over his mouth and boosting myself up to look him in the eyes. "Fred, _have you met me?"_

Fred blinked, as if he was suddenly recalling that I was related to the second most wanted man in wizarding Britain. "Oh."

"Yes, _oh_ ," I snort and take a seat at their table. "So what's the deal?"

"Remember the bet we made with Bagman at the World Cup?" George asks, and I nod. "Well, apparently, he managed to weasel his way out of the deal. The money he paid us back with wasn't Galleons. It was Leprechaun Gold."

I pause, thinking of the fifty Galleons I'd bet on the outcome of the World Cup match. I hadn't paid much attention to the money after receiving it, eventually just tossing it into my trunk, but I was beginning to regret that decision.

"That little _shit_ ," I curse vehemently, Fred and George giving me shocked looks. "What?" I defend hotly. "I don't get to curse at home. Now, let's do this. I have fifty Galleons to get back."

"Right," Fred agrees, sitting back down and sliding the parchment over while George hands me a quill. "Let's get to work."

A little over an hour of writing later, the three of us have managed to produce a letter that walks the thin gray line between "threatening" and "indirectly implying consequences". The twins had promised to deliver to the owlery in the morning, mainly because my eyes were already drooping.

"Hey." Fred gently shakes my shoulder. "You should head upstairs. You'll be no good tomorrow if you're dead on your feet."

"Tomorrow's Saturday," I grumble, rubbing a hand over my eyes.

"Still," he insists. "I'd carry you, but I can't get up the stairs."

"You don't need to carry me," I scoff, standing up and grabbing my bag from where I'd left it earlier. "G'night, Fred, George."

"Night, Blackie," they chorus quietly.

I trudge up the stairs to the dormitory, where Lavender and Pavarti were already asleep and Hermione was just about to follow. I don't even bother getting undressed, just tugging off my tie and boots and unbuttons a few on the buttons on my stiff collar before collapsing into my four-poster.

Thankfully, I was entirely too tired to dream of orange curses and deathly screams.

.

The next morning, I was surprised to see a note in my eggs at breakfast.

 _Miss Black,_ the paper reads,

 _I would like to see you in my office as soon as you are finished eating. I have some information regarding your father that I think you would like to hear._

 _\- Professor A. Moody._

"Weird." I frown at the note, confused, as Ron leans over my shoulder.

"Does that say Moody? What does he want?"

"To see me in his office. On a Saturday," I add, my confusion only growing as I glance up at the staff table to see Moody's seat empty.

"That _is_ weird," Hermione agrees, a frown also growing on her face. "Ori, maybe you shouldn't go. I mean, after yesterday…"

"I think she'll be fine," a soft voice speaks up, and we all look over at Neville. "I mean, the lesson was horrible, but Moody wasn't cruel or anything. He gave me this," he says, lifting up a copy of a Herbology book I hadn't seen before.

"Still…" Hermione hesitates. "Maybe you could take someone with you?"

"I'll go," Harry offers. "It makes sense. I was just as affected as you were yesterday."

I nod and immediately begin to shovel down my eggs as fast as I possibly could. Not ten minutes later, I spring out of my seat, grabbing Harry by the arm and snagging two pieces of toast as I drag him away.

"What d'you think Moody wants?" I ask Harry as soon as we leave the Great Hall, munching on one piece of toast as I hand him the other.

"I don't know," he shrugs. "Probably just to see if you're alright."

"Probably," I agree idly, letting silence settle between us for a moment before bringing up one of the brooms that were featured in the latest issue of _Which Broomstick?_ As we wandered through the hallways, Harry and I were able to idly chat about normal fourteen-year-old stuff in a way that we hadn't been able to in a while.

By the time we reach the DADA classroom, I'm no longer worried about the meeting with Moody, and I reach up to knock on the door with complete nonchalance.

"Enter," a voice growls, then continues, "Potter, stay outside. I'll see you next."

Harry and I share a sheepish and confused look – Moody's note hadn't said to come alone, but if that's what the professor wanted…Harry shrugs and shuffles back, and I push the door open to see the classroom empty, but Mad-Eye was standing on the landing just outside his office, his magical eye fixing me with a piercing gaze.

"Black," he growls. "Nice to see you. Come on up."

"Morning, sir," I greet, trotting up the stairs and following him into his office.

While the classroom hadn't changed much from Remus's tenure as teacher, the inner office certainly had – it now played host to a number of strange gadgets and gizmos, a few I could recognize as magical sensors. Just behind the desk, there was a large, ornate trunk with a massive lock on the front that I resolved to not go anywhere near.

"It's all equipment from my Auror days," Moody comments, thumping over to his desk and taking a seat. "Allows me to see people before they sneak up on me." He pauses to take a swig from his flask. "I'm sure you know I was an Auror, lassie?"

"I didn't, actually," I admit, taking a seat across from the desk. "The Weasleys told me who you were over summer. I understand you were extremely good at your job, sir."

"It just came with experience," he dismisses casually before leaning forward. "Ms. Black, I think it's important that you know that I was in command of a squad of Aurors in the 1970s and eighties. We were tasked with taking down Dark wizards. People believed to be in league with You-Know-Who."

"Sir?"

Moody sighs. "On November first, 1981, my squad received a call saying that a man had just blown a street to kingdom come and killed twelve Muggles and an innocent wizard."

"Sir?" I repeat nervously, my stomach sinking like a rock in the Black Lake. "Are you saying-"

"Yes, Ms. Black. I was one of the wizards that orchestrated the arrest of Sirius Black."

I lean back in my seat, shoving down my initial reaction of anger – _what, you couldn't check the bloody wand for a Blasting Hex? A Killing Curse? The Dark Mark? Nothing?!_ – and settle for a simpler reaction.

"Why are you telling me this, sir?" I ask flatly.

"The world has lost Black's trail. We don't know where he is…but I'm guessing you do."

"I'm not telling _you_ , sir. I'm not telling _anyone_ ," I interject. "I'll tell you that much right now."

"Easy, lassie," he soothes, leaning back in his chair. "Tell me a little about yourself."

"I – what?" I blink in shock at the sudden topic shift.

"Tell me a little about yourself," Moody repeats, taking a drink from his hip flask. "What do you like to do?"

"Uhm…" I stutter. "I play Quidditch. Chaser for Gryffindor. I…I'm a good duelist, I guess."

"Are you, now? Quick on your feet?"

"I'd say so, sir," I confirm, feeling my confidence skyrocket.

"And you're well-behaved?"

"Er." I shift in my seat, my inner confidence boost grinding a halt as I manage to squeak, "I wouldn't go _that_ far, professor…"

"So you're into mischief-making, then?" Moody inquires.

I just gape at him, completely unsure how to answer that question without lying or admitting something I shouldn't. It was completely unfair – that had to be the most loaded question in history.

Moody seems to take an answer from the silence and nods. "All the more reason to keep an eye on you then, lassie."

"All the _more_ reason, sir?" I ask, confused. "I wasn't aware there was a reason in the first place."

"I know you know where your father is, Miss Black," the professor announces grimly.

"I already told you, professor, I'm not-"

"Eventually, you're going to tell me, one way or another," he continues, sounding fully assured of what he was saying. "You're going to tell me where Sirius Black is. Do you understand?"

"Um, no, sir, I'm gonna have to say I don't," I reply casually, shifting again and seriously wondering if I would be pulling out my wand in the next five minutes. I did _not_ like the way I was feeling right now.

"I said," Moody growls tersely, "DO YOU _UNDERSTAND?!"_ The last word is a raw scream as he lunges forward, slamming his hands on the desk and unleashing a roar that shakes everything in the room and tears an involuntary whimper from my throat as I press myself as far back as I could, fighting the urge to curl into a ball.

"Y-Yes, sir," I stutter, not really understanding what I was agreeing to, but if it got Moody to stop screaming, I'd take it.

But there was something else – as Moody lunged forward, there was something in his eyes…a glint of something dark, dangerous, and unhinged. It could've just been his haunting past in the Aurors, but I doubted that. Whatever that glint was, and whatever it meant, it sent shivers racing up and down my spine.

Moody nods, pleased with my answer, and settles back in his chair, the glint completely disappearing and everything returning to normal.

I was just beginning to relax, tension flowing out of me like air from a leaky balloon, when Moody raised his wand and pointed it directly at me.

I didn't have time to think, let alone dodge or draw my wand, before a beam of whitish-blue light hits me directly in the face.

The room seems to spin, the world blurring for a moment as my thoughts whirled around and around like fruit in a blender, and for a split second, I couldn't remember anything – not even my own name.

When it all stops and the world comes back into focus, thankfully, I know who I am: Orissa Black. I know where I am: Professor Moody's office.

But why was I here again?

I give the professor a perplexed look. "Sir?"

"Miss Black, have you been listening to a word I've been saying?" Moody asks mildly.

"Er…" I glance at my shoes. "No, sir. Sorry."

"It's alright, lassie. I was just explaining that I was a friend of your dad's back in the day," Moody explains. "Before he went Dark, that is. Shame. He was a bright young man…just as you are a bright young girl."

I feel a slight grin curl my lips. "Thank you, sir."

"Which is why I'm sure you'll enjoy this," he continues, taking a large book out of one of the desk drawers and setting it on the desk, sliding it towards me. "It was a big help when I was your age."

I lean forward to read the cover of the gigantic, leather-bound book. "'101 Advanced Defensive Techniques for the Careful Witch or Wizard.' Thank you, sir. I'll be sure to read it."

"I'm sure you will," Moody agrees, taking a swig from his flask – it was strange, because as many times as I'd seen him do that over the past few days, that was the first time I'd seen it this morning.

I brush it off and go to stand, but my legs nearly give out and I'm forced to grab the edge of the desk to keep from faceplanting.

"Miss Black?" Moody asks. "Everything alright?"

"Fine, sir," I grin, straightening back up. "Just clumsy. I'll be going now." I pick the book up with a grunt, managing to shuffle towards the door with my new burden in hand.

I reach the hallway to find Harry leaning against the wall just outside Moody's classroom door.

"Ori!" he exclaims upon seeing me. "There you are! It's been nearly an hour!"

"What? No, Harry, it's been, like, five minutes. You need a watch."

"Um, no," he looks confused. "It's been an hour, Ori. I swear – Ron passed by a few minutes ago. Ask him if you don't believe me. It's _you_ that needs the watch."

"Whatever," I dismiss with an eye-roll.

"So, what happened?" Harry asks eagerly. "What did Moody want?"

"He didn't 'want' anything," I reveal. "We sat, we chatted, and he gave me this," I lift the book to show him. "Did you know he knew my dad? They were friends and everything."

"That's cool," Harry admits. "But, are you okay? I could've sworn I heard shouting."

"No, no shouting…" I give him a worried look. "Harry, are you okay? Are you hearing voices again?"

Harry huffs at me, batting away the hand I tried to put on his forehead.

"I'm fine. Come on, Ron said Hermione was looking for us. Something about House-Elves."

* * *

 **Special thanks to Camille785 for reviewing the last two chapters! I'm glad you like this story and hope you enjoyed this chapter. Keep favoriting, following, and reviewing, dear readers!**


	12. Chapter 12

Autumn had come to Hogwarts. As September passed us by and with October quickly approaching, the term had kicked into full swing – the teachers were drilling us harder than ever, already pushing us to revise for OWLs even though those were over a year away.

Between Hermione's incessant nagging about how much I studied – or didn't study, as the case was – and my own crippling boredom – without Quidditch, I didn't honestly have much to do with myself – I quickly forgot all about the horrible Defense lesson, focusing instead on devising the best way to turn the Slytherin Common Room pink and glittery or make all the quills in Snape's office tickle him when he tries to use them. Work was slow, as I was working by myself while the twins sorted the whole mess with Ludo Bagman, but plans were being made nonetheless.

Until, that is, on October first, when McGonagall sweeps into the Common Room after dinner, posting a notice that stops the entire House in its tracks.

 _ATTENTION ALL GRYFFINDOR STUDENTS:_

 _As you are all aware, the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year. Students from our competing schools – Beauxbatons Academy of Magic and Durmstrang Institute – will be arriving on castle grounds on Friday, October 14th for the Welcoming Feast._

 _As Hogwarts is graciously playing host to this event, it is the students' and teachers' responsibility to uphold the reputation that the Founders intended Hogwarts to have. All Gryffindor students will be expected to uphold the standards that Godric Gryffindor set upon his House, and as such, the following changes are hereby put into place:_

 _All students are expected to keep the Common Room clean and orderly. Prefects will be conducting daily room checks._

 _Students are expected to keep their appearances clean and orderly as well. I will be conducting daily uniform checks. Any students with questions pertaining to personal hygiene may see myself or Headmaster Dumbledore._

 _All students are strongly advised to be on their best behavior during the daytime hours. Punishments for rule-breaking will be strongly enforced._

 _Please be aware that the above rules WILL be strictly enforced, and House Points will be taken from any and all rule breakers._

 _Please see me with any further questions._

 _Signed:_

 _Minerva McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor House._

"What?!" a voice that I quickly realize as Fred cries out from the front of the crowd that had gathered around the notice board. "Uniform checks? Room checks? What the bloody hell is this?!"

"I'm more concerned about the 'good behavior' part," I retort, crossing my arms as I stand on tip-toe to try and see over some of the taller heads.

"At least you aren't under surveillance by the Ministry again," Harry whispers, and I have to admit, he _does_ have a point.

"Alright, calm down!" Alicia, one of the sixth-year Prefects, shouts above the noise. " _Sonorus!_ EVERYONE! QUIET!"

A hush immediately falls over the crowd, and we all turn to where Alicia and her fellow Prefect, a quiet boy named Richard, had set up a makeshift podium on top of one of the study tables.

"Thank you," Alicia continues at a normal volume. "Now, I know these rules may seem harsh-"

"More like bloody unfair, if you ask me," George grumbles, but Angelina silences him with a whack over the head.

"-but it's nothing we can't live with," Alicia continues, well-versed in the art of ignoring the twins. "It's not going to be that hard, honestly. And it won't be for that long – if I'm right, this is all about putting forth a good first impression. Give it a few months, and we'll all stop caring – you'll see."

"But until then?" Ron shouts. "What are we supposed to do, march in a single-file line?!"

"I don't know," Alicia admits. "McGonagall said to go to her with questions."

"I'll take people to her office," Richard offers, hopping off the desk and walking over to standing by the portrait hole.

"If anyone has questions for Professor McGonagall concerning the new rules, follow Richard," Alicia instructs. "The rest of you, just…just stay calm until we've got some answers."

With that, she ends the impromptu House meeting by jumping off the table and wandering over to one of the couches to continue what she'd been doing.

I make my way through the dispersing crowd to George's side as Fred leaves with the second group of students. "You know what this means?"

"We should stop threatening Bagman because McGonagall might find the evidence?" he guesses quietly, glancing down at me.

"When have you ever stopped doing something because it's against the rules?" I ask, bemused. "No, I meant the _other_ stuff – we're going to have to go underground."

"You know it's not technically underground…" George trails off.

"It's an expression," I sigh irritably, looking up as the portrait hole swings open to reveal Hermione, who looks confused at the general irritation hanging in the air.

"Hey," I jog over to her, taking the gigantic box she was carrying so she can safely make it into the room. "What _is_ this? It's heavier than books."

"It's something I've been working on," Hermione explains, looking around the room with a pinched expression. "Did…did something happen while I was gone?"

I just wordlessly set the basket down and lead her over to the notice board, pointing out the newest notice.

Hermione gives it a curious look, her eyes widening as she reads further down the page. "Oh, Ori! This is _brilliant!_ It's a really, really big opportunity to learn about the magical world!"

"Who cares?" I whine. "I have to _behave_!"

"Oh, lighten up," she sighs, looking me up and down. "I have to admit, it wouldn't hurt for you to straighten your robes a little…maybe keep your section of the dorm clean for once…"

"Yes, _Mum_ ," I drawl with a snort, causing Hermione to glare at me, which only better proves my point.

I look down at my robes with a sigh – technically, Hermione _did_ have a point. My shirt was rumpled, my tie was crooked, and I wasn't even _wearing_ my outer robes – they and my cardigan were both probably somewhere on the door room floor. But the thing was, I wasn't supposed to be the orderly, neat one here; I was the wild-child, the impulsiveness, the jokester. I was _supposed_ to be crooked and messy, not tight-laced and strict.

That was Hermione's job, not mine.

Shaking myself out of my internal pity-party, I look at Hermione as she places the basket she had been carrying on one of the tables, setting it down with a rattling clatter.

"What's that?" Ron asks curiously, climbing over the back of the couch to gather around the table.

"It's for a club, here at Hogwarts," she explains proudly. "I'm in charge of recruiting new members."

"'Spew'?" I read off one of the badges in the basket, raising an eyebrow at Hermione. "Well, of course they want new members. No one's going to want to join with a name like _that_."

"It's not _spew_ ," Hermione snaps, snatching the badge from my hand. "It's S.P.E.W., which stands for the Society of Protection of Elfish Welfare."

"Right…" I nod slowly, hoist a hip on the table. "And – I feel like this should be obvious – what does the Society for Protection of Elfish Welfare _do_ , exactly?"

"I'm glad you asked," Hermione answers coolly. "We are dedicated to improving the lives of House-Elves throughout the wizarding world, eventually extending outward to other magical beings that are perceived as 'second-class'. House-Elves are treated like slaves and servants by wizards and witches-"

I sigh and give Hermione an exasperated look, seeing Ron do the same – I knew Hermione meant well, but _really_?

"-and I will not stand for this any longer!"

"You and what army?" I mutter under my breath.

"Hermione," Harry begins, gently but also uncertain, "how many members are currently in this club?"

"Well…when you all join, four," Hermione admits.

"You've just started it today, haven't you," Ron accuses, narrowing his eyes.

"Yes, which is why we need to get started right away." Hermione brightens again. "Ori, you're vice president, you'll substitute for me at meetings if I am ever absent, which I highly doubt will be the case. Ron, you're treasurer, you'll be in charge of collecting club dues and managing funds. Harry, you're the secretary, so you should probably be writing down everything I'm saying right now."

Before anyone can say anything else, Hermione is interrupted by the portrait hole swinging open and a band of students climbing through. The convoy to McGonagall's office had returned, effectively stealing every gaze in the room.

Thanking Merlin for the distraction, I leap out of my seat, walking over to Alicia. "So?"

"The rules stand," she announces. "McGonagall even went so far as to give us thirty tins of shoe polish, two for each dorm."

I groan loudly as the tins are passed out – I absolutely _despised_ shoe polish. I didn't see the point – it was smelly, it made a mess, and eventually, your shoes would just get scuffed again. Plus, Vernon Dursley liked his shoes shined every few weeks or so, and guess who got to do that _wondrous_ task?

Me, that's who.

But I take my shoe polish and rag with minimal grumbling and head over to one of the tables, opening up the tin and making a face at the intense smell.

This was shaping up to be a _long_ two weeks.

* * *

As the day of the Welcome Feast drew closer and closer, I began to be convinced that the world hated me.

It started with the Common Room checks. Every single student was practically forced to master their Cleaning Charm, as well as _Scourgify_ and _Terego_ , a spell that cleaned up liquid messes. And then it was the uniform checks – our robes had to be clean and unwrinkled, our ties had to be neatly knotted and tucked under our sweaters, our shoes had to be polished and securely laced at all times…the list just went on and on. And don't even get me started on how many times I had to clean shoe polish out from under my fingernails _by hand_ because I didn't know a spell precise enough to clean my nails and not rip them out altogether.

The students weren't the only ones tightly wound lately – the teachers seemed to be more uptight than usual, and it was making everyone jumpy. Over the past few weeks, McGonagall had lectured us about OWLs even though they weren't for another year, Binns had assigned weekly essays on various goblin rebellions, and Snape had become viler than was usual, even for him, having assigned three massive essays on antidotes due within two weeks. Flitwick had assigned three textbooks' worth of reading on Summoning Charms. According to the boys, Trelawney had been impressed with their "predictions" in Divination and assigned double that amount of work for the next month – they were going to run out of predictions eventually.

Even the laid-back professors had amped up the workload – Hagrid was making fast progress with the Blast-Ended Skrewts, and as part of his "project", had groups of students coming down on alternate nights to observe the Skrewts and take notes. Professor Babbling, who was normally calm and collected, was now prone to highly emotional mood swings: she'd be frustrated one moment, and apologizing profusely to the point of tears the next.

In the middle of all of this, there was another Defense lesson with Moody; apparently, he'd gotten permission from Dumbledore to cast the Imperius Curse on students so we'd know what it felt like. The curse just bounced off me, thanks to the protection that the Black family ring afforded me, but it was funny to watch my classmates sing and dance and do things they'd never consciously do. One of the biggest surprises of the lesson had been that Harry was able to fight off the curse – it took him a moment, but he was able to resist.

"It's because of your pigheaded stubbornness," I revealed after the lesson. "I always told you it'd save your life one day."

Of course, after that astonishing revelation, Moody had immediately assigned ten chapters of reading, a summary of which was due in four days.

Needless to say, I think we were all going to be breathing a little easier when the schools actually arrived.

On the day of arrival – October 14th – classes were let out a half-hour early ("Brilliant!" Harry had exclaimed, "Now Snape won't have time to poison us.") and students were instructed to gather in the Great Hall by 5:30 in preparation for the arrival.

Which led me to where I was now, fussing with my clothes and trying not to sweat in a room full of every other student at Hogwarts.

"Ori, stop fussing," Hermione admonishes from next to me. "You're _fine_."

"My tie is too tight," I grumble quietly, tugging at my uncomfortably-starched collar. "My shoes hurt. I'm hot."

"Are you done?" Hermione asks, unimpressed. But she does cast a Cooling Charm for me and herself to battle the effects that the layers of clothes had. "You have nothing to worry about."

I huff and go to run a hand through my hair, then stop. "Do you have a mirror? I lost mine."

Hermione hands me one of the mirrors Madam Pomfrey had given every single female student a few weeks ago. They were cheap and flimsy, but they did their job.

"You really do have nothing to worry about," Hermione comments as I make sure that the Sleekeazy's Hair Potion I'd used earlier kept my hair in place and the Muggle face wash Hermione had let me borrow actually worked. "At least _you're_ pretty."

"What, like you aren't?" I ask, handing the mirror back. "I don't exactly see guys falling at my feet."

"Because you'd step on their faces," Hermione deadpans. "Ori, I'm a buck-toothed, frizzy-haired know-it-all. I'm not exactly getting any valentines."

I narrowed my eyes, resolving to send Hermione a Valentine in February if only to prove a point. "Who told you that? I need names. They won't know what hit them."

"Ori, no-"

"Settle down, girls," McGonagall orders as she sweeps by, roster in hand. "Get into the fourth line. Creevey, not that line! The one before it!"

As she rushes off, Hermione and I quietly slip into the formation that was beginning to form. Students were being organized into seven long rows, with first years at the front and seventh years in the back; Slytherin students were on the very left, then Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and finally Gryffindor on the right.

"It's almost six," Ron whispers. "They should be here any second."

But the minutes pass, and nothing happens. The night was getting cold, as October does in Scotland. I was quickly getting bored, picking at a loose thread on my robes and wondering if the visitors would be open to being prank victims.

Just as suspicious murmurs begin to spread through the crowd and theories begin to fly – _"Maybe they're just making a dramatic entrance?" "This whole thing could be some sort of cruel trick, you know,"_ – someone in the front shouts, "What is _that?!_ "

Everyone looks up to see a black spot appearing on the horizon, and growing steadily.

"Maybe they're flying in on broomsticks!" a first year shouts.

"Don't be silly," a sixth-year – I think from Ravenclaw – scoffs. "Broomsticks would be stupid. It might be a beast of some sort."

"You're both wrong!" a voice I recognize as Lee Jordan exclaims. "That's a _flying house!_ "

 _He wasn't that far off_ , I realize as the object gets closer and closer. It was a flying carriage the size of a small house, being pulled by a dozen elephant-sized winged horses.

"They sure do know how to make an entrance," I whisper to Hermione, who can only nod eagerly.

The carriage touches down with a loud crash, making the first three rows jump back in fear. The horses pull to a gentle stop and a door on the carriage swings open, a boy dressed in a powder-blue uniform steps out, fumbling with something for a second before a set of golden steps fold out and the boy steps back, bowing respectfully.

I just barely have time to wonder if everything at Beauxbatons is this garish and gaudy before a high-heeled shoe that was at least three feet long steps out of the carriage.

The owner of said heels – I was privately amazed at her ankle strength and balance skills – was a gigantic lady, wearing robes of pure black silk with elaborate jewelry and hair tied neatly back. She seemed taller than even Hagrid was, and given that he was half-giant, I had absolutely no doubt that this woman had at least some giantess in her blood.

"Madame Maxime," Dumbledore greets warmly, a smile on his lips as he kisses one of her jewel-covered hands, barely having to bend to do so. "Welcome to Hogwarts."

"Dumbly-dorr," the giantess – Madame Maxime, apparently – purrs with a heavy French accent. "I 'ope I find you well?"

"In perfect form," Dumbledore assures her, customary twinkle in his eyes. "And these are your pupils, I assume?"

Maxime nods, waving one hand behind her, where twelve or so children in dressed in what looked like fine blue silk were huddled, trembling against the cold.

"You are welcome to go inside and warm up, if you'd like," Dumbledore offers. "Or you can wait for Karkaroff to arrive – he should be arriving any moment now."

"We will warm up, I think," Maxime decides. "But ze 'orses-"

"Our gamekeeper and Care of Magical Creatures professor, Hagrid, will be absolutely delighted to take care of them. Once he gets back from checking up on one of his other…projects, shall we say."

I quickly scan the crowd, realizing the half-giant was nowhere to be seen.

"It was probably the skrewts," Ron murmurs from a few feet behind me, and I nod.

Madame Maxime, however, looks unsure, as if she couldn't imagine anyone from this school doing an up-to-par job. "My 'orses...zey require careful 'andleing, as zey are very strong…"

"I'm sure it won't be a problem," Dumbledore insists.

Maxime relents with a sigh. "Very well. Will you please tell zis 'Agrid zat ze 'orses only drink single-malt whiskey?"

I blink in surprise, oddly wondering if drinking only whiskey was good or bad for the horses, but Dumbledore only nods and assures her Hagrid will be informed. Maxime nods and leads her students toward the castle, her massive form parting the crowd like a knife through hot butter.

"How big d'you think Durmstang's horses are gonna be?" Seamus asks eagerly.

"Not much bigger, I hope. I don't think even Hagrid can deal with that many gigantic horses," Harry admits.

"If he hasn't been eaten by the skrewts yet," I remind them. "Or Merlin-knows-what else he's got."

"Maybe the skrewts got out," Ron jokes.

"Don't even joke about that," Hermione shudders. "I do _not_ want to think about them loose on the grounds."

We all fall silent, shivering slightly as we waited for the Durmstrang group to arrive. I manage to nag Hermione into casting a Warming Charm on me as night falls, and I was just beginning to wonder if Durmstrang was just going to let us freeze out here when an odd sound reaches my ear.

It sounded a bit like a drain emptying, the sound of rushing water quiet at first but quickly growing to a dull roar; the only problem was that I couldn't quite figure out where this sound was coming from.

"Look at the lake!" someone shouts, and from our vantage point, high on the grounds, we could all see what was going on – the surface of the lake was bubbling and twisting, a small whirlpool forming in the center of the lake that quickly grows outward, almost to the banks. A thin, black pole was rising from the center of the whirlpool, and I had no idea what it was because it was attached to a complicated set of ropes and even a net.

"It's a ship!" Ron realizes just as the crow's nest appears, and the crowd bursts into excited chatter as a massive ship rises from the depths of the lake.

I blink, glancing around to make sure everyone else was actually seeing the same thing I was. It had been three years since I got the infamous Hogwarts letter, but sometimes I still had trouble believing my eyes.

"I know," Hermione whispers excitedly behind me, probably thinking along the same lines. "It's brilliant, isn't it?"

I just nod as the ship floats over to a bank and docks, throwing down first the anchor and then the gangplank. I could see shadows disembarking – the all seemed to be fairly bulky in stature, but as the entered the light thrown off by the castle, it became obvious that most of that bulk belonged to the massive furs that each student wore; wherever Durmstrang was, it must be a _lot_ colder than Hogwarts.

"Dumbledore!" a man in sleek, silver robes calls as he leads what I assumed to be his students up the hill. "How good it is to see you again. How are you, my friend?"

"Karkaroff," Dumbledore greets with a smile. "I'm simply blooming, thank you."

As the two men stand together in the light of the castle, I can't help but draw coincidences between them – both men were tall and thin, both holding a feeling of experience and power that was as old as their white hair. But where Dumbledore's eyes held a perpetual twinkle that could put almost anyone at ease, Karkaroff's smile didn't reach his eyes, leaving them cold and calculating.

"Viktor, come up into the warmth," Karkaroff calls over his shoulders. "You don't mind, do you, Dumbledore? Viktor's got a bit of a cold, I'm afraid…"

One student breaks off from the bundle of furs that had gathered behind Karkaroff, and as he emerges from the darkness, I recognize him with a jolt, even without Ron's excited yelp.

Viktor Krum had come to Hogwarts.


	13. Chapter 13

After Durmstrang arrived, the professors made quick work of herding the students into the castle, intent on getting us all out of the cold.

The news that Viktor Krum, international Quidditch star, was not only still in school but _here_ , at _Hogwarts,_ was causing a massive stir. Girls from every House (and even a few guys) were squealing with excitement, everyone frantically trying to find something for Krum to sign.

"I don't have a quill on me – oh, if I would've known he was coming-"

"Do you think he'd sign my hat in lipstick?" one girl frantically asks, digging through her satchel.

"Do you think he'd sign my face?!" another girl eagerly asks, eyes blown wide in wonder.

" _Idiots_ ," I snort, Hermione nodding in agreement as we pass the group of girls, now fighting over the lipstick, on our way into the Great Hall.

Ron, thankfully, was being a little more subtle in his fanaticism, but not by much. He kept going on and on about Krum's Quidditch scores and statistics, and "Krum did this" and "Did you know Krum…?"

"Hey," he asks at one point, "does anyone have a quill?"

"No, I left all mine in my dorms," Harry replies, and I really can't tell if he doesn't have any quills or he just wanted Ron to stop.

I simply shake my head and ignore him in favor of checking out my surroundings. The entire castle had been cleaned up in the weeks proceeding the other schools' arrival; walls and floors had been scrubbed, paintings had been lectured on good behavior, the lawns had been trimmed, colorful flowers had been charmed to grow – someone had even gotten Hagrid to convince the giant squid to behave.

The Great Hall was the center of all the effort: the tables and floors had been scrubbed until they gleamed, and elegant banners hung from the walls surrounding each table; scarlet with a gold lion for Gryffindor, royal blue with a bronze eagle for Ravenclaw, yellow with a black badger for Hufflepuff, and emerald with a silver serpent for Slytherin. Behind the staff table at the front of the room hung the biggest banner of them all, a purple cloth decorated with the Hogwarts coat of arms.

I was paying so much attention to the decorations on the walls that I tripped over my own feet, falling forward to hit not the floor as I'd expected, but another _person_ , causing us both to go flying.

The pure mortification of it all makes me stay on the ground for a bit, until Harry calls, "Ori? Are you okay?"

"'M fine," I respond. "You go ahead. Save me a seat."

There's a pause before Ron speaks up, "All right. If you say so."

I wait for their footsteps to recede, joining the crowd of students making their way to the tables, before I finally look up, getting my first look at who I'd run into.

The other student, a girl, kneeling a few feet away, was a girl dressed in the blue silk of Beauxbatons – she had slightly wavy, dirty-blonde hair and light skin, and she was looking at me in concern.

"Are you okay?" she asks, and I notice that her voice lacked the heavy accent that Maxime's voice had. The girl gets up off the floor and brushes her robes off, making her way over to me. "Are you hurt?"

"Uh, no," I deny, shaking my head and extending a hand for her to shake. "Orissa Black, Hogwarts. Sorry for tripping over you."

"Roselyn McKinnon," she replies, the corners of her lips quirking up. "Beauxbatons Academy. And it is okay, no one is hurt."

I pick myself up off the floor and straighten out my robes, performing a quick _Scourgify_ just in case. I eye the other girl up and down, taking in her slightly ill-looking appearance. "Are you sure you're okay? I didn't exactly hit you lightly."

"I assure you, I am fine," she announces. "I have been through worse. Now, shall we eat before your Headmaster begins to speak?"

I give her one last look before nodding, turning around to lead her into the main part of the Hall, where the three schools had gathered.

I approach the Gryffindor table eagerly, about to take a seat when I realize the girl behind me – Roselyn, she'd said her name was – had paused. I turn around, curious, to see her gazing across the Hall, blue eyes wary.

"What is it?" I ask slowly, following her gaze to the Ravenclaw table, where the rest of Beauxbatons had found seats and were looking around the Hall with disdainful expressions.

"Erm…" she stutters, then straightens her back. "I do not wish to impose, but would you mind terribly if I were to sit at this table instead?"

"Uh…" I look around and shrug. "Okay. Whatever. You're the guest."

"It is not breaking any rules?" she asks formally, an unreadable look in her eyes.

"I don't care if it is," I shrug, taking my seat next to Harry and motioning for her to sit on my other side. She does, and I catch a hint of a smile on her lips before it disappears behind the emotionless expression that seemed a bit fake to me.

I quickly introduce Roselyn to Fred, George, Harry, Ron, and Hermione, who immediately engages the other girl in an intense conversation about French vs. English magic.

I roll my eyes but listen to the discussion with one ear as I watch Filch arrange extra chair, putting two more seats on either side of Dumbledore.

"If there are only two more guests coming, why is he setting up four seats?" Harry asks, unknowingly voicing my thoughts.

"I have no clue," I answer. "Maybe we're missing some guests?"

I shrug, looking up attentively as the doors to the Great Hall swing open, the staff filing in a line that's backed by Dumbledore, Karkaroff, and Madame Maxime. The Beauxbatons students immediately spring to their feet upon seeing their headmistress – including Roselyn, although her movements seemed a bit forced to me.

Once everyone was seated, including the students, Dumbledore steps up to the podium, immediately commanding the attention of everyone in the room.

"Good evening, students and staff, ghosts and – most importantly – guests. On behalf of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, I would like to extend a warm welcome to all of our foreign guests. May you find your stay at Hogwarts comfortable and enjoyable."

One of the Beauxbatons sitting on the side of Ravenclaw table closest to us gave a condescending laugh, voice muffled by the fur scarf she still had wrapped around her head.

"No one asked you to come!" Hermione snaps quietly. Next to me, I hear Roselyn mutter something under her breath – I couldn't hear what it was, but I was pretty sure it was insulting.

"The opening of the Tournament will take place after the meal," Dumbledore continues, "so for now, I urge you all to eat, drink, and be merry!"

He sits back down, and I turn my attention to the food that had appeared on the table. Roselyn let out a startled yelp, watching the table with wide eyes.

"What, they don't have magical tables in France?" I tease, giving her an amused look as I reach for the shepherd's pie.

"No," she replies with a breathy laugh. "This – this is unlike anything I have ever seen before."

"Glad you like it. You should eat," I advise, gesturing at the table. "It's all really good."

She nods and reaches for a seafood stew I'd never seen before, ladling it into a bowl.

"What is _that_?" Ron asks, wrinkling his nose.

"That, Ronald, is a bouillabaisse," Hermione responds sternly.

"Bless you."

"It's a French dish," Hermione explains as if Ron hadn't spoken. "I had it when my parents took me to France the summer before last."

I nod, remembering Hermione talking about the trip, but Roselyn perks up. "Ooh, _parlez-vous français?"_

"Er…" Hermione blushes, cheeks turning a deep red. "Not very well. I never got the chance to learn, I'm sorry."

Roselyn frowns slightly but nods, giving Hermione a bright smile. "It is alright."

"What did you ask?"

"I wanted to know if she spoke French," Roselyn explains with a slight shrug. "It is a beautiful, even if most of the people that speak it are…less so."

I tilt my head, wondering just what she meant by that, but – as if on cue – I'm interrupted by a heavily accented voice.

"Excuse me, are you wanting ze bouillabaisse?"

I twist in my seat to see the girl that had laughed during Dumbledore's speech earlier. She'd finally taken off her scarf, and her hair was a whitish-silver, a stark contrast to her dark blue eyes, which had just landed on Roselyn. "Hello, McKinnon."

"Delacour," Roselyn returns coolly. "Enjoying yourself yet?"

The girl – Delacour, apparently – gives Roselyn a holier-than-thou glare before turning to Hermione. "'Ave you finished wiz ze bouillabaisse?"

"Oh, yes," Hermione answers. "Here – can you give it to her, please?"

Roselyn glares at Delacour for a moment longer before nodding and taking the bowl, passing it over to her classmate, who takes it gingerly, avoiding contact with Roselyn as much as possible.

She gives the other girl one last glare and mutters, _"Diable-enfant,"_ before carefully walking back to the Ravenclaw table.

"Yeah, I don't like you much either," Roselyn calls after her, causing me to burst into side-splitting laughter.

Once I've recovered most of my composure, I study the girl sitting next to me with a careful look. "You know, you don't sound like she does. Not as French."

Roselyn blushes scarlet under my gaze. "Well, technically, I'm not…French, that is. I – it's a bit of a long story. I suppose I could explain later."

I shrug. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to." I look up to see Ron staring after the Delacour girl, almost falling out of his seat to get a view of the girl.

"That's a _veela_ ," he croaks out.

"She is not a veela, Ron," Hermione sighs exasperatedly. "You don't see anyone else gaping at her like an idiot, do you?"

I didn't have the heart to tell her that as the veela-like girl had walked across the Hall, boys' heads had turned and they, like Ron, now seemed to be speechless.

"I'm telling you, that's not a normal girl!" Ron insists. "They don't make them like that at Hogwarts!"

"Hey!" I snap, reaching across the table to smack him across the face. Hard.

"They make them okay at Hogwarts," Harry objects, also staring across the Hall, but at Cho Chang, who was sitting a few feet away from the veela girl.

"You're both idiots," I announce, sitting back and turning to Roselyn. "What's her deal?"

"I don't know," she shrugs. "If you didn't notice, we don't exactly _like_ each other."

"That's an understatement," I snort.

"Look who's just walked in!" Hermione gasps. "It's Barty Crouch!"

I spin around so fast I almost give myself whiplash. Sure enough, sitting in the two extra seats were Bartemius Crouch, Sr., and none other than Ludo Bagman, who still owed me fifty Galleons.

I suppress a growl as I look at both of them, but especially the former – I despised the man for sending my dad to prison sans a trial.

"Um," Roselyn speaks up quietly, "are you alright?"

I blink, suddenly realizing that I'd been glaring at the head table. "Not really," I whisper. "That man, with the weird mustache, played a major hand in absolutely destroying my family and childhood."

Roselyn stares at me for a long moment before simply saying, "Oh," and reaching out to awkwardly pat me on the shoulder, an action that, in and of itself, causes me to burst into another fit of laughter.

The other girl looks shocked for a moment, but I almost catch a grin on her face.

Once I can breathe again, I distract myself by grabbing a chocolate frog off the table and opening it, biting the frog's head off as I looked at the card – merely a Merlin, which I already had quite a few of.

"Is that…chocolate?" Roselyn asks, her eyes lighting up.

"Yeah," I mutter around a mouthful of chocolate frog legs and then swallow. "Is France stuck in the Stone Ages or something? Do they seriously not have chocolate frogs?"

"Well, I've never had one," Roselyn admits. "But you don't have to-"

I interrupt her by pushing a frog into her hands. "You haven't lived until you've gorged yourself on tooth-rotting sweet candy," I insist.

"Well, I do love chocolate," she mutters, a smile spreading across her face as she opens the box, screeching as the frogs hops away. "You did not tell me it was a real frog!"

"Well yeah, that's half the fun," I scoff, using a napkin to scoop up the frog before it could get very far.

"And you can collect those cards," Ron explains as I hand the frog over to Roselyn, who quickly decapitates it. "Every frog comes with something random, so you never know what you're getting. Which one is that?"

"Felix Summerbee," Roselyn reads. "Whoever that is."

"He invented Cheering Charms," Hermione reveals. "Honestly, don't _any_ of you read?"

Rosie shrugs and tucks the card away, reaching for a pastry I didn't recognize.

After we were all finished with dessert, Dumbledore stood again, and an excited silence falls over the crowd.

"The moment you've all been waiting for has arrived," he announces. "The start of the Triwizard Tournament is only moments away, but before I begin, I would like to state a few rules pertaining to the Tournament." His eyes seem to linger on Fred, George, and I as he says this, and I put on my best innocent look.

"First, for those of you who do not know them, these are Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation-" cue polite applause, "-and Mr. Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports." Dumbledore pauses for heavier applause, as apparently the ex-Quidditch player was known around the world.

Once the applause dies down, Dumbledore continues. "Mr. Bagman and Mr. Crouch have worked tirelessly for the past few months to make sure the tournament is completely safe…"

"In between scamming people out of their money and arresting innocent men, sure," I mutter under my breath. Hermione shushes me and jabs her arm into my back.

"...and as such, have agreed to be on the judging panel alongside Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, and myself."

Dumbledore leans forward, facial expression intense. "I will not deceive you: this tournament will not be an easy task. The challenges the champions will face will test them in every way possible: their magical ability, their strength, their intelligence, and, most importantly...their ability to be calm in the face of immense danger."

The crowd falls completely silent, students whispering among themselves.

"So, basically, people with a death wish," Roselyn whispers behind me.

"Sounds like it," I agree.

"Because of this," Dumbledore continues, "only students seventeen years of age or older maybe enter their name into the running."

"What? No!" Fred howls. "That's bloody outrageous!"

He was accompanied by disappointed groans from all over the Great Hall from students that had been hoping to enter.

"While I understand your frustration," the Headmaster calls over the noise, "I assure you, every rule we put in place is for your own safety, something we do not take lightly."

He gives us all a stern look before continuing. "As you all know, there will be three champions chosen to complete, one hailing from each school. The champions will be chosen by the most impartial of judges: the Goblet of Fire. Mr. Filch, if you will."

Filch emerges from his spot on the side of the hall, carrying an old, wooden chest.

"That's the 'Goblet of Fire'?" Roselyn asks in disbelief. "Doesn't look like much, does it?"

Dumbledore doesn't react to the chest, simply tapping it three times with his wand. The old chest opens slowly, and the headmaster reaches a hand in and pulls out an equally old, wooden cup that was fairly unremarkable…except it was filled with fire.

"I see the resemblance now," Roselyn amends. "That cup is on fire."

"Yeah, I see that, Captain Obvious," I quip, rolling my eyes. "You think that's real fire?"

"Well, maybe if they put some sort of charm on the wood to keep it from burning – or would that be on the flames itself?"

"Would you two shut it?" Ron hisses. "I want to hear."

I glare daggers at the redhead but stay silent as Dumbledore begins to speak again.

"Any student that still wishes to compete in the tournament must write their full name and school on a slip of parchment and deposit into the Goblet, which will stand in the Entrance Hall for the next two weeks, open to all that wish to enter their name. However, I will personally be drawing an Age Line around the Goblet to ensure that no one under the age of seventeen tries to enter their name." Once again, Dumbledore's eyes find Fred, George, and I with a knowing look.

"Don't know why he's looking at us," I grumble. " _I,_ for one, am not planning on entering. It's stupidly dangerous."

"This from the girl that once played chicken with three Chasers, all twice her size, while going at top speed," George points out.

"During the most important game of the season," Fred adds. "C'mon, where's your adventurous spirit?"

"Currently, it's hanging out with my common sense," I deadpan. "Now _shh_. Dumbledore's talking."

"…is entering a binding magical contract that cannot be broken," the headmaster was explaining. "Once your name is in the goblet, you cannot take it out; if your name is chosen, you _must_ compete. Please take your time to deeply consider this before putting your name in."

"Now, I think it is time we all get some rest. Goodnight to you all," Dumbledore concludes, stepping down from the podium. The Hall erupts into activity almost immediately; students are out of their seats, gathering into groups and jostling for a chance to either catch a glimpse of Krum or the Goblet.

"An Age Line!" Fred exclaims, eyes glinting with what I called the Mad Genius Look™. "Well that's easy, isn't it? All it takes is an Aging Potion to beat one of those."

"I'm not sure it's that simple," Roselyn argues tentatively. "I mean, Professor Dumbledore is a world-renowned wizard…"

"He's not that great up close," I assure her. "Trust me."

"Ori!"

"He's barmy, 'Mione, admit it!"

"As thrilling as this is," Fred interrupts, "we need help on the Aging Potion."

"It's a bad idea," I warn with a heavy sigh.

" _Please_?" George whines, batting his eyelashes furiously. "It would be an honor to work with you, O Great One."

I shove him in the shoulder and push down the blush that was rising on my cheeks. "You're an idiot, you know that?"

"Ah, but you love me anyways," George laughs.

" _Fiiiiine_ ," I groan. "Merlin help me, fine. I'll help you make the potion. I'm not taking it, but I'll help you make it."

The twins give identical cheers, each clapping a hand on one of my shoulders before running off to wherever.

"Are they always like that?" a quiet voice asks me, and I turn around to see Roselyn watching me with wide eyes. She didn't look put off, as most people do when confronted with Fred and George Weasley, but simply amazed.

"Pretty much," I chuckle.

"I've never seen anything like it," she admits, still sounding wonderstruck as we make our way around the crown on Krum-adoring fans. The other girl didn't seem that interested in the superstar either, but I didn't know if that was a Beauxbatons thing or a personal choice.

"Well, I'll admit they're unique, but does no one have a sense of humor at Beauxbatons?" I ask, horror seeping into my voice.

"Unfortunately, no," Roselyn sighs. "They're all a bit tight-laced, for all my efforts to the contrary."

"You say 'they' like you aren't one of them," I comment carefully, side-eyeing the other girl.

Roselyn suddenly stops talking, clicking her jaw shut and fiddling with the edge of her silky sleeve. "I…I think they're expecting me back at the carriage. If you will excuse me…"

"Uh…yeah," I stutter, confused as to what I said that made her shut down.

Roselyn nods and turns around, head held as high as when the Beauxbatons girls had marched in earlier. But after a few moments, she stops and looks over her shoulder. "I will see you tomorrow?"

"Probably," I nod. "Goodnight, Roselyn."

"Goodnight Orissa," she whispers and then walks away.

I watch her round the corner with narrowed eyes and crossed arms. There was something off about Roselyn McKinnon, the not-French girl that attended a French school.

And I would find out what it was if it was the last thing I did.


	14. Chapter 14

**Sorry this is a bit late - it's extra long to make up for it.**

 **Thank you to all those who reviewed the last chapter - reviews make my day! Please keep it up!**

* * *

The morning after the Welcoming Feast was a Saturday – normally, a day that meant I got to sleep in, skip breakfast, and grab something extra from the kitchens if I got hungry. Today, however, was different. I was awake early, sneaking out of the dorms and down to the kitchens not to eat, but to access the mini-potions lab the twins had set up.

I had promised to help brew the Aging Potion, after all. That just didn't mean I had to be enthusiastic about it.

"I still think this is a bad idea," I announce as I measure out a teaspoon of salamander blood and add it to the steaming cauldron in front of us.

"So you've said, for the twentieth time," George sighs and casts another Ventilation Charm. "Hand me those porcupine quills, would you?"

I hand him the jar and turn to Fred. "I'm assuming you're still on board too."

"Well, yeah!" he laughs. "Forget the glory – the prize money alone is a thousand Galleons. Just _think_ of what we could do with a thousand Galleons."

I can only nod – both the Potter and Black families were extremely wealthy, so I'd never gone without money, but I could empathize.

"I guess," I sigh. "I just think it's stupid. I mean, people died last time."

"Yeah, but that was probably someone from Durmstrang or Beauxbatons," George says dismissively while adding two shriveled Newt eyes. "I doubt it was anyone from Hogwarts."

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that," I mutter idly, putting two drops of Wormwood Essence into the cauldron and stepping back to let Fred stir. "You don't even know if this will work."

"We might as well try," George shrugs.

A loud crack suddenly interrupts him, almost making me drop the jar I was holding before I spin around to face the House-Elf that had just popped in. "Blinky has a message for Missy Rissy!"

"Hello…Blinky. Um, what's wrong?" I ask, wondering why all house-elves had such weird names.

"Oh, Missy Rissy is asking Blinky, Blinky does not deserve the honor, Missy Rissy is being a kind witch…"

"Oh my _god_ ," I sigh, reaching down to grab the sobbing creature and lift it to eye level. "Stop. Stop it. Blinky, stop sobbing…"

He stops, blinking at me with large, wet eyes.

"…and tell me what is going on," I finish slowly, mind whirling as possibilities pop into my head: was Harry in trouble? Was it Ron or Hermione? Had something happened with one of the other schools?

"Miss Roselyn is wondering where yous is," Blinky squeaks, interrupting my downward spiral of doom. "She is sending Blinky to find yous, Missy Rissy."

"Don't call me that," I sigh, putting the elf down and giving it a pat on the head. "Thank you, Blinky."

"Missy Rissy is thanking Blinky…Blinky does not deserve such kindness…" the house-elf sobs before disapparating with another loud pop.

"Got a date?" Fred jokes.

I give him a scathing look and shake my head. "No. There's a girl from Beauxbatons – she's not like the others. There's something different about her, and I need to find out what."

"Why?" George asks, looking up from the Potions manual he was holding.

"I dunno," I shrug. "I just have to. Do you need me to stick around, or…?"

"Nah." George nudges the ladle and shakes his head. "It'll be done in a half-hour or so, you can take your leave. We won't wait up."

I sent him one last glare before grabbing my bag and leaving the side room, climbing out of the kitchens via the fruit portrait before I put my bag down and pull out a piece of parchment.

"I solemnly swear I am up to no good," I whisper, tapping it with my wand and grinning as the infamous words of Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs appear, followed by the map itself.

Initially, I reel back as the flood of names come in – there are between twenty and forty new names on the map, and it's Saturday, so everyone is everywhere. It doesn't take me all that long to spot the dot labeled "Roselyn McKinnon" in the back courtyard – she's kind of just…standing there.

I raise an eyebrow at that but put the map away anyways after I wipe it. I grab my bag again and turn around, heading for the nearest exit.

I make it to the courtyard in a remarkably quick time, skirting around the edges until I spot the familiar face. "Roselyn! Roselyn! Over here!"

The other girl turns around at the sound of my voice, spotting me and walking over. "Hello. Thank you for coming."

"It's alright, I was glad to, but, uh…" I look around. "Aren't you cold?"

"A little," she shrugs. "But I am warmer than the average person, so…"

I reach out a hand to touch her arm, eyebrows shooting up as I realize that she did indeed run a few degrees higher than normal, making her into a walking furnace. "That's cool. But are you sure you don't want to go inside? I could give you a tour."

"That would be nice, thank you," she accepts formally, but a grin spreads across her face and her stride is relaxed as she follows me through the nearest set of doors. "I would like to know more about Hogwarts itself."

"Well, it's a really bloody old castle," I surmise with a smirk. "I don't know all that much about the school – Hermione's your go-to girl for that. But I got lost a lot when I was a first-year, and I sneak out even more than that, so I know my way around the castle itself."

"I would love to go to school is castle like this," Roselyn admits, an amazed look on her face as she takes in all the tapestries, statues, and paintings lining the corridor. "Beauxbatons is…it is a magnificent place, but everything is very…fragile. Pretty, but fragile."

I nod but give her an odd look. "Do you always speak like that?"

The question seems to catch her off guard. "Like what?"

"All formal and proper. I'm not gonna bite your head off if you use a contraction," I tease with a grin.

Roselyn chuckles lightly as we round another corner, coming up on the entrance to the Hufflepuff Common Room. "Madame Maxime insisted that those students that were chosen to make the journey to England maintain ladylike behavior."

"Madame Maxime isn't here," I remind her. "And I won't tell. Ladylike behavior is overrated if you ask me."

"I suppose it is," she chuckles. "If you don't mind…?"

"You don't have to ask permission," I sigh dramatically. "Again, not gonna bite your head off."

"If you say so," she shrugs. I watch her emotionless mask slip off, revealing shimmering blue eyes and an easy, but small, smile. "You seemed a little hot-tempered to me."

"I'm a lot more than hot-tempered," I quip. "I've also been called worse."

"Me too," Roselyn agrees. "I…Delacour and her friends call me _diable-enfant_ – it means 'devil-child.'"

"What?" I ask, horrified, as I skid to a stop in the middle of the hallway. " _Why_?"

"I guess you could say I'm a lot of trouble," she shrugs. "Trouble Beauxbatons doesn't li – I mean, can't handle."

I narrow my eyes at the slip – was she about to say "doesn't like"? What did that mean?

"I'm a lot of trouble," I counter. "I'm the most trouble Hogwarts has seen since the late 1970s. And people may not like me either, but that doesn't mean they call me _devil spawn!_ " I snap, crossing my arms and wondering what to hex the next Beauxbatons student I saw with.

"Orissa, it's not a big issue," Roselyn argues quietly. "It's…it's just a school thing. They aren't-"

"if the next words out of your mouth are 'hurting me', I'll be forced to hex you," I grit out. "And that would be a shame, as I happen to like you."

"Uh…thanks? I like you too."

I give her a small smile before storming on ahead, my robes billowing ominously behind me.

We continue through the castle in tense silence until a thought occurs to me. "You need a nickname."

"What's wrong with my name?" Roselyn asks, tearing her eyes away from the wizard with a lopsided hunchback to look at me,

"Nothing," I shrug. "It's just…frilly. And long."

"I don't think my name has ever been called 'frilly' before," she says dryly. "Thank you, Orissa."

"You're welcome," I respond in the same tone. "But seriously, a nickname. Is there anything that your friends call you…other than 'devil-child,' that is."

"You aren't going to let that one go, are you?" Roselyn asked with no real heat in her voice. "Well, with the whole 'prim and proper' thing, Beauxbatons isn't big on casual nicknames."

"Or fun, it sounds like," I grumble. "Then what would you like? Lyn? Rose?"

Roselyn tilts her head, weighing her options for a moment before deciding, "No, Rose sounds like something you'd call a crotchety old lady, and Rose isn't much better."

I nod in agreement. "What about Rosie?"

"Rosie…" Roselyn says slowly, as if testing the word on her tongue, before she nods. "Not crotchety, not formal…I like it."

I grin a reach over to tap the other girl's left shoulder, and then her right. "I hereby dub thee Rosie," I tell her with sarcastic formality.

Roselyn – _Rosie_ – plays along, dipping into a deep curtsy. "It is an honor, Your Majesty."

She straightens up and looks me in the eye, and we stare at each other for a few seconds before bursting into gut-wrenching, side-splitting, hysterical laughter.

"Oh – oh my god," I gasp, wiping tears from my eyes as I lean heavily against the wall. "What the hell was that?"

"No idea," Rosie replies. "I haven't laughed like that in forever."

"Obviously not." I take a few deep breaths to re-center my composure. "With an attitude like that, you'll fit in just fine…until you have to leave," I add at the last second, frowning at the sadness I already felt at the prospect of my new friend leaving.

Rosie suddenly looks a bit uncomfortable. She opens her mouth, as if to say something, but she's cut off by the sound of running footsteps heading in our direction.

"Blackie!" a familiar voice shouts just before Fred rounds the corner. "We did it! It's finished!"

"Really?" I ask, and George nods, coming up behind his twin. "And it works? You made sure?"

"We tested it on a Pygmy Puff. Three drops and it turned a few shades darker, so yeah, it works," George confirms with a grin, holding up the vial of blue liquid.

I take it and swirl the potion around, checking the consistency and the color before nodding and looking up at the twins. "Nice job."

"I'll say," Rosie interrupts, looking over my shoulder. "That's the nicest Aging Potion I've seen in a long time."

"Thanks," Fred grins at her. "And who may you be?"

"Roselyn McKinnon," she introduces herself with a handshake. "But you can call me Rosie."

I snicker and quickly muffle it behind a coughing fit, making all three people look at me for a moment before Fred turns back to Rosie.

"Please, Rosie. I've got to tell you, learning your name is a relief," Fred comments as we start walking towards the Great Hall. "'Cause otherwise, we'd have to call you Ori's Mysterious French Girl forever, and _that_ would get tiring."

I jab him in the ribs. "Stuff it."

"What, you don't _want_ a Mysterious French Girl?" George teases, waggling his eyebrow.

To everyone's surprise, it's not me but Rosie who elbows George. "You heard the girl, stuff it."

"They're ganging up on us!" Fred gasps. "George, we've created a monster!"

George lets out a high-pitched, overly dramatic scream. "Noooo!"

I roll my eyes at their antics and push open the doors to the Great Hall, holding it only for Rosie.

The Hall seemed to be bustling with activity, even though it was still early; students were milling around the Goblet of Fire, eagerly whispering about who might put their name in.

I spot Harry, Ron, and Hermione near the edge of the crowd and hurry up to them. "What are you doing here?"

"We're here to see Krum put his name in," Ron explains absently, stretching his neck to try and spot the Quidditch star – even though the Durmstrang kids weren't even inside yet.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Hermione asks, balancing a book on her arm. "You're not an early riser, and you're not interested in Krum."

"Correct on both accounts, 'Mione," I chirp. "But I got roped into helping those two," I gesture towards where Fred and George were showing the potion to Lee Jordan, "and then I had to give her a tour of the castle." I tip my head at Rosie, who was standing between me and the twins.

"The potion isn't going to work, you know," Hermione tells me, a touch of condescension in her voice. "Dumbledore is a great and powerful wizard. You won't fool his magic with a simple potion."

"Well, everyone makes mistakes," I return with a mischievous grin, catching George's eye as he nods. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an Age Line to go fool."

I return to the twins' side, and George raises his voice to address the crowd. "Attention, ladies, gentlemen, and Ronniekins!"

"We've done it!" Fred shouts, ignoring Ron's outraged sound of protest. "We've successfully brewed an Aging Potion to put our names in the Goblet of Fire!"

The crowd cheers, and Rosie and I clap and whistle along with them, paying no mind to Hermione's disapproving presence.

George turns to me and gives a dramatic bow. "Miss Black, if you would be so kind as to check the quality of the Age Line?"

I shuffle around the crowd to get a good look at the Age Line that was surrounding the Goblet in a ten-foot-wide circle.

"Looks pretty solid to me," I report to George, fighting to keep a straight face. "You may proceed, Mr. and Mr. Weasley."

"Alrighty then!" George grins and carefully uncorks the vial, tipping his head back to drop two drops on his tongue, then handing the vial to his brother for Fred to do the same.

I step forward to take the vial from them, tucking it into a pocket just in case. "Here goes nothing, right?"

"Right," they chorus, pulling out slips of parchment with their names clearly written.

I stand back and watch as the twins step over the line, pausing for a moment. When nothing happens, they easily step forward to drop their names into the fire and the crowd bursts into thunderous applause.

"See?" I tell Hermione. "See, I-" I'm interrupted by a loud hissing sound and Rosie's hand on my arm. "Look!"

I spin back around to see the Goblet flaring up, spitting fire like an angry dragon. Fred and George don't have enough time to move before two streams of blue fire hit them in the chest, throwing them back several meters and well outside the circle.

And then, if that wasn't bad enough, there are two loud pops and Fred and George suddenly have snowy white hair and long white beards.

"Oops," I mutter, hurrying over to crouch by their side. "I must've screwed up the potency. Are you okay?"

"They will be just fine, Miss Black. And I assure you, the potion was brewed perfectly," a voice behind me answers.

I spring to my feet to see none other than Dumbledore himself parting the crowd. "Sir?"

"Why you three don't show that much effort in class, I will never know," Dumbledore continues as if I hadn't spoken. "Mr. Weasley and Mr. Weasley, off to the Hospital Wing with you. Madam Pomfrey will be prepared – she's already dealt with a Hufflepuff sixth-year and a Ravenclaw fifth-year that tried the same method. Although I must say, neither of their beards were as spectacular as yours."

Fred and George just give him stunned looks before I offer Fred a hand up, as they now had old, creaky bones. Rosie does the same with George, and we watch the two of them hobble off to the Hospital Wing.

"I guess it's a good thing you didn't take the potion," Rosie murmurs.

"I told you it would be."

"Although…" she smirks. "Who's the crotchety old lady _now_?"

"Shut up.".

" _Shut up_ ," she mimics in an old-lady voice.

"Stop it," I laugh, swatting her in the side. "You're horrible."

Rosie doesn't respond, and I look over to see her not laughing anymore. Instead, she's looking at something else with a blank, slightly sad face – I follow her gaze to see the Beauxbatons girls parading through the Entrance Hall.

And if I had to choose between enduring the presence of the 'holier-than-thou' French brats or saving my new friend from emotional turmoil? The choice was easy.

I grabbed Rosie and we were gone before anyone could say otherwise.

.

As the days passed, Rosie and I continued to bond. I introduced her to Sugar Quills (which were a hit) and Fizzing Whizbees (which were not) and continued to give her a tour of the castle and the grounds, showing her all the secret passageways I'd found over the years. I even found the time to introduce her to Hagrid – although he mainly spent the entire time asking Rosie about Madame Maxime, which is an interesting tidbit I stored away.

In return for my company, Rosie gave me a crash-course in French food ( _"Snails?! You've eaten snails?!"_ ) and eagerly learned about English culture, both magical and muggle. She slowly revealed a fun, mischievous personality to match my own, although there was always something gravely serious about her. Her sense of pranking, however, was brilliant; she was able to make elaborate and complex plans while _technically_ not breaking a single rule. It was amazing.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, my protective instincts kicked in – the same instincts that made me do stupidly brave things for my friends and family were now grabbing onto Rosie.

I didn't realize this, however, until one day, nearly a week after her arrival, when Rosie was nowhere to be found and I was working myself into a panic.

Rosie hadn't been at breakfast that morning, but I hadn't thought much of that – maybe she'd just slept in. But as morning classes dragged on, I couldn't shake the feeling that something had gone wrong – last night, Rosie had been extremely irritable. What if she'd gotten hurt? What if someone from her own school had attacked her? What if she'd attacked someone else and gotten sent back to France or something?

By the time lunch rolled around, I was a jittery, fidgety, worried, pissed-off mess. I was completely unable to pay attention in any of my afternoon classes (even Transfiguration, which was a shame, since McGonagall was just about the only teacher I cared about nowadays) and after the final bell rang, I was one of the first ones out of the classrooms, setting out to comb the school.

And I found nothing. A small part of me realized that I was grossly overreacting and that she was probably fine, but the larger part of me had learned not ignore my instincts.

I trudged into the courtyard after hours of searching with a scowl fixed on my face as I plop down on a bench. I'd searched every place I could think of – the Great Hall, Hagrid's hut, the various secret passageways I'd shown Rosie – and nothing. I had no clue where she was.

"-and zen Marcelle says, ' _Oui, mais je ne connais pas son nom!'"_

The French, spoken from a passing Beauxbatons girl, suddenly gave me an idea so glaringly obvious I couldn't believe I hadn't thought of it before.

The thing was, as much as I'd taken Rosie under my wing, we didn't go to school together. She went to Beauxbatons. And if anyone knew where she was, it would probably be a fellow Beauxbatons student.

And so, with that in mind, I swallowed my pride, stood up, and approached the huddle of Beauxbitches (as I'd mentally dubbed them).

"Excuse me," I interrupt calmly. "Have any of you seen Rosi – I mean, Roselyn – today?"

One of the girls, a brunette girl, looks at me in confusion. "Who is zat?"

Taken aback, I just stare at her for a moment before slowly replying, "Roselyn…Roselyn McKinnon. Blonde, blue eyes, not French, about this tall?"

Even with the description the group of girls – maybe five in number – continues to stare at me in confusion. It's clear that they have no idea who I'm talking about, even though Rosie goes to their school and Beauxbatons can't be _that big_.

"Okay, look," I growl, crossing my arms. "I know you all know English, and I would really rather get this conversation over with as I don't particularly like any of you. So, I'll ask again: where is Roselyn?"

The girls glance at each other for a moment before the brunette girl steps forward, an amused look on her face. "She 'as not told you?"

"I – what?" I take a step back, confused. "She hasn't told me…what?"

"You do not even know!" the brunette laughs, her cronies giggling behind her. "Zat ees…'ow you say…adorable!"

I narrow my eyes at her, trying to decide if I was confused or angry. "What are you on about?

"You know, I would 'ave zhought she would 'ave told you…'er _best friend_ ," the other girl sneers. " _Oui,_ you are ze only zat likes 'er. She ees not welcome at our school."

Anger wins out over confusion and I take a step towards her, squaring my shoulders. "Don't talk about her like that."

The brunette takes a step to match me, laughing hysterically. "Oh, zis ees funny! She follows you like a puppy, and you defend 'er like a... _chien de garde…_ yes, a guard dog!"

"And you talk about her like a bitch," I snap, internally congratulating myself on the smooth dog metaphor. "Trust me, I know dogs. Rosie is no puppy…but, I will admit, I do have a tendency to bite." I give the other girl a predatory smile. "So _tell me_ where she is before I'm forced to do something I regret."

The French brunette scoffs and mutters something in French that I'm pretty sure wasn't a compliment. Behind her, her cronies were buzzing, and I could hear whispers from the surrounding Hogwarts students.

"I do not 'ave to tell you, Hogwarts scum," she scoffs, slipping a thin wand out of her sleeve.

"That's how you wanna play it, then?" I ask with a crooked grin.

The brunette doesn't answer. Instead, she raises her wand…and I punch her in the mouth.

She stumbles back, surprised, and the delay is enough for me to disarm her and slip my own wand away. But the shock doesn't last long, and the brunette's eyes flash as she lunges at me and we both go down.

The next few minutes are a blur – there are punches, scratches, kicks; even some hair-pulling (ha, the joke's on her, my hair is too short to pull). There's a lot of screaming, both in English and in French, and somehow I have a throbbing headache and my ears are ringing even though I haven't been hit in the head that hard.

"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?!" I hear Professor McGonagall's voice roar over the noise. " _Filipendo!"_

Suddenly, the other girl is ripped away from me – probably taking some of my hair with her – and I'm left lying on the ground, head throbbing, ears ringing, and wondering who hit me with what.

The slightly blurry form of Professor McGonagall appears above me, and I distantly hear her mutter " _Finite Incatatem,"_ and the pain stops.

I scramble to my feet and away from the irate Deputy Headmistress as she quickly sends a Patronus to Madame Maxime, instructing the ruffled Beauxbatons girls to go "straight to the Headmaster's office, your Headmistress will meet you there. Make no detours – I shall know if you do."

And then she turns to me. I shrink back in fear, because if there was one thing I was truly afraid of, it was an extremely angry Minerva McGonagall.

But all she says is "Miss Black, my office. Now."

As she turns away, shooing everyone back to what they were doing, I have to jog to keep up as she set a furious pace down the hall.

Luckily (or maybe not), her office wasn't too far from the courtyard, so we make it there in record time. McGonagall tells me to take a seat, closing the door and saying nothing.

McGonagall usually offered the lesser offenders a biscuit. If you didn't get a biscuit, you were in some deep trouble. And I wasn't getting a biscuit.

"Are you alright, Miss Black?" she asks quietly, looking me in the eye with a grave expression on her face. I quickly nod, and McGonagall straightens her back and looks over her glasses, assuming her lecturing stance.

"Then, _what_ , may I ask, possessed you to start a fight – a _fist_ fight, I may add – with one of our guests?!" she demands. "Do you not remember that you are _supposed_ to be a shining example of a Hogwarts student?!"

"I remember, professor," I answer with a sigh.

"Then please tell me you have a good reason as to why I shouldn't keep you in detention until Christmas for threatening our diplomatic relations with the school," she threatens. "You could be charged with assault, Miss Black. Ms. Levfevre has bruises covering a substantial amount of her body, some missing teeth, and a fair amount of missing hair. Madame Maxime will be furious."

"You didn't hear what they were saying about Rosie," I defend. "She deserved what she got, and I'd do it all over again, given the choice."

McGonagall gives me the sternest of expressions for a long moment before requesting, "Settle down, Miss Black. Start from the beginning."

So I do. I explain how I'd met Rosie nearly a week ago and how all her schoolmates hated her, called her names that literally meant 'devil-child' and how she was my friend, and you don't talk about my friends like that; how I hated the fact that she had to go to school with people that hated her, because not even _Malfoy_ was that low. Malfoy had class. These people did not. And also, they didn't seem to have-

Professor McGonagall clears her throat, interrupting my rambling before I could really get going.

"Er, sorry, professor," I glance down at my shoes, bracing myself for the lecture.

But it never happens. All McGonagall says is, "So I see you've discovered Ms. McKinnon, then. Madame Maxime did warn me about her."

"Professor, if I may speak frankly…" McGonagall nods. "She was probably wrong. I don't know what she said, but Rosie – she's a perfectly nice girl. Nicer than I am, actually."

"Believe me, Ms. Black, when I say I can make my own decisions on my students," McGonagall announces.

I snap my head up. " _Your_ students? Professor, I just spent fifteen minutes ranting about how Rosie has to go to Beauxbatons, under Madame Maxime."

McGonagall blinks as if surprised. "I would've thought…hm. She must not have told you."

I sit up straight in my chair, paying close attention to the professor. "What? She must not have told me what?"

Professor McGonagall purses her lips. "It's not truly my place to tell you, Miss Black…"

I shove my lip out in a pout, widen my eyes, and even manage to water them a little. " _Pleeeease,_ professor?"

McGonagall looks at me for a long, long time, and I can't help but wonder what she sees. The moments go by, and just as I'm beginning to think she won't say anything at all, McGonagall sighs. "Yes, alright."

"What Miss McKinnon hasn't told you, Miss Black, is that she is going to become the newest student…of _Hogwarts._ "


	15. Chapter 15

" _What Miss McKinnon hasn't told you, Miss Black, is that she is going to become the newest student…of Hogwarts."_

The shock of what McGonagall had just dropped on me takes a few moments to sink in, but when it finally hits me, I nearly fall out of my chair. "Wh-what? She's – Hogwarts – _what?!_

 _"_ One question at a time, Miss Black," McGonagall orders. "And take a deep breath."

I nod, breathe in through my nose, and settle on a question to ask. "So, Rosie is...or was...a student at Beauxbatons, right?"

"Yes," McGonagall confirms. "She started there as a child and has gone there for the past four years."

"Okay...and now she's not anymore? She's just...at Hogwarts now?"

"Transferring, to be exact," the professor corrects. "I expect that the final proceedings will be finished within the next week, at the most."

I nod, worrying my lips between my teeth. "And...why?"

"Why?" McGonagall repeats.

"Yeah, why is she transferring?" I clarify. "Why now? And – not that I'm not happy to have her – but why _at all_?"

McGonagall nods, looking thoughtful. "Insightful questions, Miss Black. The 'why now' is simply a matter of timing. You must understand that magical schools do not communicate on a frequent basis – we exist on our own and, generally speaking, leave our neighbors to their business. When Madame Maxime heard that the Triwizard Tournament was occurring again, after so long, she contacted Professor Dumbledore concerning the transfer. The two headmasters agreed that Ms. McKinnon would come with the Beauxbatons delegation, and simply remain at Hogwarts when it came time for the rest of the students to return to France."

"She was never going to partake in the Tournament, was she?" I ask quietly. Inside my head, a different realization was coming to light: _Beauxbatons couldn't wait to get rid of her. They jumped at the first chance to get rid of the 'devil child'. They threw her away like a piece of trash._

 _"-_ lack? Miss Black!" I jump at the sound of the professor's voice and hesitantly look up to see McGonagall giving me a severely irritated look. "Were you listening to anything I just said, Miss Black?"

"Um..."

McGonagall's nostrils flare as she glares at me over the rims of her glasses. "Next time you ask a question, do be sure to pay attention to the answer, Miss Black."

"Yes, professor," I sigh.

"As I was saying," McGonagall continues, "No, Ms. McKinnon was never going to be in the Tournament, as she is only fourteen. The age limit is seventeen and not a day younger, as I'm sure you remember." McGonagall gives me a significant look, and I have to fight to keep the smirk off my face.

McGonagall suddenly heaves a heavy sigh and pushes up from her chair, walking over to the window and staring out of it – but I don't think she was looking at the grounds.

"The general 'why' is a harder question, as Ms. McKinnon's story is not mine to tell, but this much I can tell you: Ms. McKinnon is not of French descent, as I am sure you've guessed. Her family is originally Scottish, I believe. I taught her mother here at Hogwarts – Marlene was in the same year as your father and his...'Marauders.'" McGonagall pauses here, and I can see her shudder halfway across the room. "Unfortunately, I lost track of Marlene after the war – no one knew just what happened to her, but I can only assume she ended up in France."

"Professor," I interrupt, "if Rosie was never supposed to be in France, then how did she end up there?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that, Miss Black," McGonagall sighs and returns to her desk. "Now, returning to the original topic of your little altercation earlier. While I now understand your reasoning, I'm afraid I still have to issue your punishment. Report to Madam Pomfrey directly after dinner."

I nod, accepting my punishment without complaint – I was no stranger to detentions, and really, I did deserve it this time. At least it wasn't with Filch or in the Forbidden Forest again.

I make my way towards the door, pausing when McGonagall calls my name again. "Yes?"

"I believe Ms. McKinnon can currently be found in the Hospital Wing. You have a half-hour before dinner – I would go pay her a visit if I were you."

Forcing down the immediate wave of panic that had crashed over me upon hearing 'Rosie' and 'Hospital Wing' in the same sentence, I threw a smile over my shoulder. "I will, Professor. And thank you."

McGonagall returns my smile with a small, but equally warm, one. "Have a good day, Miss Black. And do not let me hear of you fighting again – the consequences will not be as lenient next time."

I nod and hurry out of the classroom, tearing through the near-empty corridors until I reach the Hospital Wing.

"Miss Black!" Madam Pomfrey exclaims as I burst through her doors. "Whatever is the matter?!"

"Can I see Rosie? Just for five minutes?" I plead, slightly out of breath. "Please? Five minutes."

Madam Pomfrey starts to object, but all it takes is my best puppy-dog eyes (complete with head-tilt) before she relents, although not before warning me to keep my visit short and quiet, or else she'd have me evicted.

I nod and patiently wait for her to return to her office before stomping over to one of the only occupied beds that held one Roselyn McKinnon, wrapped in blankets up to her chin.

"Orissa-" she croaks hoarsely upon seeing me approach, but I quickly cut her off.

"Why in the name of Merlin's mother did you not tell me about your transfer?" I demand hotly. "And what happened to you? Where were you today?"

"Slow down," she rasps, and I notice that her voice sounds like she's been swallowing rocks. "I've been sick...'S really contagious..."

I pause and look down at my hands, only half-surprised to find them clenched tightly around the frame at the foot of the bed.

"Well, it's too late now," I shrug and come up to the side of the bed, pulling up a chair and taking a seat.

Rosie lets out a weak chuckle before growing serious. "How'd you find out about the transfer?"

"McGonagall told me when I was in her office for fighting with one of your ex-schoolmates,". I admit, taking great pride in saying the word _ex-schoolmates._

"What?!" Rosie exclaims in what was probably supposed to be a yelp but was ruined by her voice breaking in the middle of the word. She started struggling against her blankets as she asked, "Did you get in trouble?"

"Hey, calm down," I soothe, resting a hand on top of her blankets to still her. "It's fine, I'm no stranger to getting in trouble, as you well know. Besides," I continue, glancing around the Hospital Wing, "it's only one detention, and it just so happens to be in here – which, in hindsight, I'm sure was planned, because McGonagall can be crafty like that."

Rosie gives a weak little laugh and sinks back into her many pillows. "'M not so sure about that. She seems strict."

"Ah, no, she loves me, you'll see," I insist with a grin. "So, the transfer...?"

"Yeah, well..." she gives me a rueful grin. "Surprise, you're going to be stuck with me. Maxime 'n Dumbledore are getting everything in order...I'm getting Sorted on Sunday."

"Yay," I grin. "Here's hoping you're in Gryffindor – the other's just aren't as good, you know."

"Will it be a problem. If I'm...somewhere else?" Roselyn asks, cut off by a violent coughing fit.

"Nah, I'm adaptable," I tell her dismissively, placing a hand on her shoulder until she's done coughing. "You okay? I can go get Madam Pomfrey."

"No, 'M fine," she croaks.

I wasn't entirely convinced, but I decide to let it go and lean back in the chair. "If you say so. Rosie?"

"Mm?"

"How'd you end up in France if they all hate you?" I ask quietly.

The simple question seems to have an adverse effect on her – Rosie freezes, her face looking like that of a caged animal before it fades. "It – I can't tell you. Not yet. I'm trying to, honestly, but I-"

"It's okay," I interrupt her. "Seriously, it's fine. You don't have to tell me everything. We've literally known each other less than a week," I remind her.

"I'm gonna tell you eventually," she mutters, burrowing deeper into her blankets as Madam Pomfrey comes bustling out of her office.

"Are you upsetting my patients, Miss Black?" She asks suspiciously.

"No, ma'am," I quickly defend.

Madam Pomfrey doesn't seem to buy that, but she shakes her head after a moment. "Off with you, then. Go enjoy your dinner, and I'll see you after that."

I nod and, after bidding Rosie goodbye, take off for the Great Hall.

Dinner was a quick affair; I ate as quickly as I could, answering all my friends' questions about the fistfight (thanks to the school rumor mill, everyone knew, even though it had only been an hour or so) before excusing myself, stating I had detention with Madam Pomfrey.

I hurry back to the Hospital Wing, greeting Madam Pomfrey and receiving my detention: scrubbing bedpans – without magic.

It was hard, and it was disgusting, but I took off my outer robes and rolled up my sleeves and got to work. Madam Pomfrey had been kind enough to place me within eyesight of Rosie's bed. Even though she was asleep, I appreciated being able to keep an eye on my friend.

Because she was my friend – I'd punched someone in her defense today, so I think she made the 'friend' list. And I didn't have very many of those, if you didn't count friends that were also Harry's friends or Harry himself. And it wasn't that I didn't love Ron and Hermione – they were great. And they didn't intentionally exclude me, but there had always been this unspoken feeling that they were _Harry's_ friends.

Rosie was _my_ friend. She didn't like me because I knew Harry Potter, or because I was rich and famous. She liked me because I was funny and sneaky and awesome.

I suppose it was a good thing, then, that she was here to stay.


	16. Chapter 16

**Hello, readers.**

 **First, I'd like to apologize for the delay in this chapter – I lost inspiration about halfway through and had to leave it alone for a day or two.**

 **Second, in that break, I discovered the masterpiece that is "Hamilton: An American Musical"…or the soundtrack, at least. If there's any Hamiltrash in my audience, feel free to PM me to fangirl about it.**

 **Also, if anyone catches the Hamilton reference I slipped in this chapter, tell me in a review! (Hint: it's got to do with Philip Hamilton.)**

* * *

Rosie got out of the infirmary after another twenty-four hours under Madam Pomfrey's care. For someone with a "highly contagious" disease, she looked as good as new by that Saturday – and it just so happened that that weekend was a Hogsmeade weekend, so I took the opportunity to introduce her to wonder that was Honeydukes. It was a huge success – Rosie nearly bought out the store's supply of Chocolate Frogs, along with a large handful of Sugar Quills, some Pepper Imps, and a sampling of almost everything else in the shop.

Once I managed to tear her out of the sweet shop, we also managed to make it to Madam Malkin's ( _"If you're going to go to Hogwarts, then you need to look like a Hogwarts student,"_ ) Tomes and Scrolls, Zonko's, and browsed Eeylops Owl Emporium ( _"I don't need an owl, really. I mean, who am I going to write to?")._

All in all, the day was pleasant.

The next day, however, was anything but.

Sunday morning began with me having to nearly shove food down Rosie's throat at breakfast – even with Hermione's constant reassurances that the Sorting was not going to be difficult or dangerous, Rosie was still hesitant to eat, stating that she didn't want to puke all over the professors.

"That's not going to happen," I argue for the twelfth time that morning. "And you'll do nobody any good if you pass out on the stool because you didn't eat breakfast."

"Maybe that's for the best," Rosie groans into the wood of the table. "Maybe then I won't be Sorted at all. Maybe it's better that way. Maybe…"

"Maybe or not, you need to eat," I insist, pushing a plate holding two plain slices of toast at her. "Seriously. I don't feel like explaining to Dumbledore why you fainted. And I will not be the one to drag you back to the carriage."

Rosie lifts her head slightly to glare at me, but I just grin and tap her plate. With a huff, the blonde girl snatches a piece of toast and begins to nibble on the edge, still looking horribly nervous.

"The Sorting's not that bad, really," Harry offers. "The Sorting Hat just looks inside your head, asks you a question or two, and then it'll decide where you go."

While this is meant to make Rosie feel better, it has the adverse effect: her face goes ghost-white and she actually sways in her seat a little before reaching for her plate and stuffing half a slice of toast in her mouth and dropping her head to the table again.

"And if you're worried about what House you'll get, don't be," Ron advises. "We won't mind. Unless you end up in Slytherin, then we'll hate you. Or in Hufflepuff, with that prat Diggory-"

"Ronald!" Hermione exclaims, whacking Ron over the head with her notebook – her Muggle-made, five-subject, inch-thick notebook. This elicits a watery laugh out of Rosie, who sits up and props her elbows on the table.

"Don't listen to him," I tell her. "You'll do fine, no matter where you end up."

Rosie doesn't respond, watching McGonagall warily as she approaches the Gryffindor table. "Pro-Professor."

"Miss McKinnon," McGonagall greets kindly, nodding at the rest of us. "If you've had enough to eat, the Professors are waiting."

"Y-Yes, Professor," Rosie stutters, nearly tripping as she stands up. I give her shoulder a reassuring squeeze before gently nudging her towards McGonagall.

"You'll do great!" I shout after her, watching as she walks away with quick steps. As soon as she leaves the Great Hall, I turn to look at Hermione. "She _will_ do okay, right?"

"Yes, Ori," Hermione sighs. "She seems like a bright girl, she'll be fine. It's just a Sorting, it's not like she's fighting a dragon or something."

"I guess," I grumble. "I don't even know why she's so nervous. It's just wearing a bloody hat for a few minutes."

"Maybe she's just not used to how things are here," Hermione suggests. "It's a learning curve, I think." She finishes her eggs and stands up. "And speaking of learning, I will be in the library. Do you want to come? It'll take your mind off everything."

I pause to consider my options – on one hand, I did _not_ want to spend my Sunday morning in a library mainly watching Hermione to research. On the other hand, however, going to the library was probably a better option than letting myself descend into the downward spiral of worry that would inevitably happen.

"I'm coming," I decide. "It's better than waiting around here."

Hermione stands and practically skips out of the Great Hall, and I roll my eyes, bid the boys goodbye, and follow Hermione out of the hall.

After making a quick stop at Gryffindor Tower to get our books, parchment, and quills, the two of us quickly find a quiet table in the back of the library away from the stern gaze of Irma Pince, school librarian – and favorite target of the twins, Lee, and I. Needless to say, she hated my guts.

But I digress.

Hermione and I found a table near the back of the library, and while Hermione immediately cracks open a book of magical law making in regards to…something, I take my time before deciding to pull out my Transfiguration book and actually _do_ the assigned reading on Switching Spells.

 _Switching is often seen as one of the simplest categories of Transfiguration among witches and wizards skilled in the aforementioned art. While this may be true, it is also more complex; Switching requires two present, tangible targets, instead of simply one, as many of the other categories do._

 _While this may deter some less-experienced witches or wizards, do not-_

"Excuse me, Heir Black?"

Those four words nearly cause my heart to stop.

I don't look up right away – mainly because there wasn't a _good_ reason for someone to call me by my formal title at school. None. At all.

But eventually I lift my head and find none other than Viktor Krum himself looming over the table. Hermione doesn't seem to have noticed him – that, or she didn't care.

"Heir _ess_ , actually," I correct him coolly. "What do you want, Mr. Krum?"

For a moment, Krum looks shocked that I'm not tripping over myself at the mere sight of him, and then the shock is replaced by something that almost looked like happiness before his face goes solemn again.

"I vant to talk to you," he rumbles with a light accent. "Is there somevhere ve can go that is more…private?"

I glance over at Hermione, only to see her still nose-deep in her work. Sighing, I push my chair out and stand. "Yes, come on."

I lead Krum over to a secluded spot between two bookshelves – Fred and George had reported that it was quite the snogging spot, but I had other things in mind.

"How do you know who I am?" I demand of the Quidditch star, giving him a suspicious look.

Krum raises his hands in the universal sign for surrender. "Your family is known throughout the vorld as masters of the Dark Arts, as Durmstrang is. I know your ring."

I snort and look down at my hand – specifically, at my ring. It _was_ extremely unique: shining silver with a gray-green stone at the top, topped with the Black family crest and framed by two raven wings. As I watch, the stone flashes gray before going dormant again – maybe it could sense my annoyance or something.

"So, what?" I ask Krum. "You think you could just waltz into my school and go, 'Hey, you like Dark Arts? I like Dark Arts! Let's be friends!'?" I narrow my eyes at him. "Well, I got news for you, _mate_ : I'm not like the rest of my lot. Never have been, never will be."

"I am not meaning to offend you, Heiress Black," Krum responds calmly. "Nor do I vish to insult your family."

"Then what do you want?" I sigh. "And please stop calling me _Heiress_. It's uncomfortable. Try 'Miss', or just 'Black'. Orissa, even."

"As you vish, Oh-ree-sah."

"What? I – it's – never mind." I grit my teeth and shake my head. "If you didn't come to accuse me of being Dark, then what _did_ you come for?"

Krum opens his mouth, closes it, and then tries again. "How much are you knowing about Durmstrang?"

"Um…" I blink, caught slightly off-guard by the question. My mind scrambles to retrieve everything I'd learned about the northern school up until now. "Well. It's up north, near…Russia? Or somewhere like that. No Muggle-borns allowed. Isn't is mainly boys? And mainly Dark?"

Krum nods. "The school is having a reputation for practicing Dark magic, yes. But there are some students that are not vishing this path."

"And…?" I tilt my head up to squint at Krum. "Are you one of them?"

"I do not vish to become a Dark Vizard, no. I simply vant to play Quidditch," he explains eagerly.

"And I don't want to have to save the world one day, but oh, look, I've got to," I return sarcastically. I let out a bitter laugh. "Here's to wishing for unremarkable destinies, hm?"

Krum frowns but doesn't comment either way.

I open my mouth to continue, but I'm cut off by Hermione's voice hissing my name.

"Ori? Ori! Where are you?!"

"I better go," I tell Krum. "She'll come looking for me. Just…find me if you need me, alright?"

Krum nods eagerly but doesn't walk away. Instead he hesitates, shuffling his feet and flicking his eyes to the source of Hermione's voice, and was he… _blushing?_

I open my mouth to comment, but Krum quickly nods and mutters, "Thank you, Oh-ree-sah," before turning around and beating a hasty retreat out of the library.

"Oh- _kay_ …" I mutter before shaking my head and going back around the bookcases to where Hermione was waiting.

"What did he want?" Hermione asks curiously as I sit back down and refocus on the textbook in front of me. "Not to 'woo' you or anything, I hope."

I bite back a laugh that was entirely too loud for a library. "Nah, nothing like that. I wouldn't have gone for him anyway, to be honest. He just wanted to introduce himself."

"He called you 'Heir Black.'"

"Yes, he did," I drawl, rolling my eyes as I continue reading.

"Why was that?" Hermione presses. "Did he know your family? Are they connected to Durmstrang?"

"Haven't the faintest," I sigh. "If you haven't noticed, I don't like ninety percent of my relatives, so if would please stop asking questions, Hermione, that would be nice."

Hermione draws back, her face flushing a deep red as she stutters out apologies. "I – I didn't mean-"

I cut her off by squeezing her hand to take the sting out of my words, and she grins happily at me before returning to her book, content in her attempts to completely reinvent the magical class structure.

I sigh and sit back in my chair, glancing up at the grandfather clock – only a few more hours of this, and then the fate of my newest friend would be revealed.

.

Hours later, I had completed my Transfiguration homework, along with the work for Ancient Runes that was due the next day, as well as the Potions essay that was due the day after that.

There still hadn't been any word from Rosie or anyone else involved in the Sorting; none of the professors nor the Headmaster himself had been seen since early this morning, and I was assuming Rosie would've told me when she was done.

 _What if she isn't done yet,_ a horrified little voice in the back of my mind wonders. _What if the finalizing was delayed because of – of something, and they haven't even gotten to the Sorting yet? Or what if she's a Hatstall?_

 _It's been hours,_ I mentally counter. Just as I was beginning to wonder if the Sorting Hat really _could_ take hours to decide where someone should go, the library doors swing opens and I look up to see Professor McGonagall approach Pince, who quickly points at me, whispering urgently.

McGonagall rushes over to me, a look of faint worry on her face as she approaches me.

I raise an eyebrow in silent question, setting down my quill and pushing my completed Care of Magical Creatures essay out of the way.

"Miss Black," McGonagall greets with a prim nod, although I can hear an edge of worry in her usually collected voice. "I don't suppose Miss McKinnon's been to see you this afternoon?"

"No, she hasn't," I reply, giving her a confused look. "She's been busy with the transfer work…but you knew that, Professor. What's…did something go wrong?" I ask (it was a semi-demand, honestly) as my eyes widen.

"No, no," McGonagall quickly reassures me. "I was simply wondering, as the Sorting ended an hour ago. I assumed she would seek you out, but apparently I was wrong."

I glance out a nearby window; it had gotten dark a while ago, and with it being late October, it was probably freezing. I voice these thoughts to McGonagall, who purses her lips and nods.

"I was greatly hoping she'd stayed inside," the professor admits worriedly. "I suppose I'll have to alert the staff-"

"Don't worry about it, Professor," I interrupt, standing and quickly gathering my books and paper. "I'll have her found within the hour. Promise," I tack on quickly, upon seeing McGonagall's skeptical expression. "Marauder's honor."

If she had been a less proper witch, I have no doubt that McGonagall would've rolled her eyes at me. As it was, she just gives me a prim nod. "Please do not dawdle, Miss Black."

"I won't," I assure her as I sling my bag over my shoulder and quickly make my way out of the library.

Once I was well out of view of the library doors, I duck into a small alcove and pull a folded piece of paper out of my pocket, tapping it with my wand.

"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good," I whisper, grinning as the lines spread out over the paper.

I open the map and look for a certain dot; it was easier now, as the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students weren't in Hogwarts and therefore not on the map. Plus, almost everyone was in their common rooms at this time of night.

 _Almost_ everyone. There was a little dot, hovering near the south side of the castle, labeled 'Roselyn McKinnon'.

I frown at it – I couldn't tell if she was outside or not, but I put the map away and grab my coat from the dorm anyway and make my way onto the grounds.

I eventually track Rosie down to a little-known spot on the south side of the castle, overlooking the Forbidden Forest; just over the staircases that led to the dungeon, there was a part of the castle that was only about five feet high with a conveniently flat, wide roof.

I pull myself up onto the roof and spot Rosie sitting on the far side, staring off into the distance as she fiddles with something.

"I'm shocked to see you here," I call as I approach her and plop down by her side.

"I'm shocked you found me," she admits with a chuckle. "Have you been here before?"

"Nope," I deny with a shake of my head. "It's too close to the dungeons, in which resides an overgrown bat that gives me hives," I explain dramatically. "So, how'd it go?"

"Impatient, much?" she asks without any real heat, but she moves her hands and holds up the object she'd been fiddling with – a red and gold striped tie. "Looks I'll be rooming with you!"

I give a whoop of excitement. "That's brilliant! I knew you could do it!"

"That makes one of us," she responds dryly, tucking the tie back in her pocket. She was wearing the same uniform that unsorted first-years wore: plain black robes with the Hogwarts crest and a neat black tie.

"Is…is it bad if the hat can't decide where to put you at first?"

"Not necessarily," I assure her, thinking back to my own Sorting. "Why, what happened?"

"It wanted to put me in Ravenclaw," she reveals nervously. "They're okay, right?"

I nod with a slight smile. "They're the smartest people in the school. Bit loopy, if you ask me, but generally okay."

"The hat said my 'ultimate bravery wins out over all else,'" she quotes, a slightly crooked smile on her face. "So here I am."

"It's for the better, probably. There are so many stairs to Ravenclaw tower, and that means _work_ ," I sigh dramatically.

"You're a lazy git," Rosie snorts, laying back on the stone and looking up at the sky.

"Damn straight," I agree cheerfully, then sigh. "It sounds like your Sorting went better than mine. I almost got put into Slytherin," I admit quietly, slightly afraid that Rosie would react harshly to this revelation.

But she just gives me a shocked look. "How'd it manage that? You seem like the poster girl for Gryffindor! You're brave – a-and bold and-"

"And cunning, clever, determined, and slightly ruthless," I list, ticking off points on my fingers as I go. "I've got a small circle of friends that I'm extremely loyal to, and betrayal hurts worse than death. Tell me that doesn't sound like a snake," I dare her.

"But you aren't Dark," Rosie argues hotly. "Don't forget that. I've only known you for two weeks, but even I can tell you're powerful and you _do_ care about doing the right thing. Hell, you punched a girl just because she _insulted me_!" Rosie exclaims, sounding bewildered that I'd done that.

"Rosie, if you'd heard the things she said about you!" I protest. "I doubt you would've let it slide and I was not about to!"

"Slow down, Ori," she soothes. "I get it. But back to the point – you're not a Slytherin, even if you do share some of their better qualities. You're a Gryffindor, and that's all that matters."

I grin at her and lay back, watching the stars and idly picking out the ones that were named after family members of mine.

"Speaking of," she continues, side-eyeing me, "how'd you manage Gryffindor?"

"I, ah…" I rub the back of my neck sheepishly. "I might've threatened to tear the Hat to shreds, then burn the shreds, and spread the ashes all over England if it didn't put me with my brother."

Rosie lets out a deep, full-body laugh, but pauses once she gets her composure back. "Brother?"

"I – no. Not really. It's a long story."

"I've got forever," Rosie whispers, sounding giddy at the fact that she was actually getting to _stay_ at Hogwarts.

I huff and begin to explain my third year, and then the words start spilling out – about Allison Potter, the Concealment Charms, the rumors that floated around Hogwarts, and even the ankle bracelet the Ministry had forced upon me.

And I watch Rosie's face through all of it – I watch her jaw stiffen and her eyes burn, and I tell myself that maybe, _maybe_ , she's just as protective of me as I am of her.

"Those _bastards_ ," she hisses, letting out a very animalistic snarl before shaking her head and giving me a hopeful look. "But at least you've got your dad, right? That's good. I mean, it's more than I've got, so."

I glance over at her, unsure if she was going to continue or not. When she does, I move over to press my shoulder against hers.

"My mom is dead," she whispers. "And my dad…I don't – I never _met_ him. They're the reason I'm here, in England." She takes a shaky breath, squeezing her eyes shut.

"You don't have to tell me this," I tell her softly. "Not if it hurts."

"No, I need to tell _someone_ ," she says determinedly, so I fall silent and listen.

"My mom was named Marlene. She was – she was the best. She was tough, and strong and pretty…she raised me, and Merlin knows _that_ wasn't easy," Rosie continues. "She fought in the First War, here in England. I don't know much about what she did – she would never talk about it – but she spoke highly of your dad," she reveals. "That was partly how I knew I could trust you so fast. They fought together. But then, in 1979, You-Know-Who attacked her family, and Mum almost died. Her entire family…they got killed. Or worse."

Rosie takes a deep breath, and I feel her lean into me, even if it's an unconscious movement. "Mum escaped to France, for some reason I'll never know. She met my father within a month of arriving in the country, and next thing you know, there's me," she surmises with an expressive hand movement that draws a slight chuckle from me.

"Mum was amazing about it all," she enthuses quietly, eyes shining as she watches the stars. "She managed to raise me and all my…issues, without complaining. We didn't have much money, and it was only the two of us, but I had Mum and it was all okay."

She falls silent, and I nod. I had felt the same way about Harry – no matter what life would throw at us, we'd be alright if we had each other. That had changed since last year, and sometimes I missed it.

"And then Mum died," Rosie mutters under her breath, and I can hear her sniff as she wipes a hand over her eyes. "Last December – she was cold and sick, and the stress of it all just…" her voice breaks, and she's trembling but I'm certain it's not because of the cold.

I lean over and wrap my arms around her, resting my chin on top of her head. "You can stop anytime you want."

"I need to do this," the other girl mutters into my shoulder, pulling back and wiping her eyes. "Beauxbatons already hated me then, but they hated uneducated people more, so they let me finish the school year out. I didn't have anywhere to go…I mainly lived in inns and such until school started up again," she explains. "I was shocked they even let me back in when September came…and then I learned what was going on."

"The transfer," I interject.

"Right," she agrees. "Couldn't wait to wash their hands of the bloody 'devil child'. And it didn't help that I didn't belong there in the first place."

"It's for the best, I think," I announce, tapping her new tie.

"I've got no argument there," she snorts. "Good riddance, I say."

A laugh bubbles out of my throat, made of relief and happiness and sadness all at once. "Are you okay?" I ask once the laughter has died down.

Rosie seems to consider this for a moment before deciding, "I will be."

"Good." I stand up and offer her a hand. "Now let's go inside, you've got a nice warm dorm waiting. It's bloody cold, and if I stay out here much longer I'll lose feeling in my fingers."

"Terrible," Rosie gasps dramatically, grasping my hand and pulling herself up, straightening her robes as she did so. "Your Housemates won't hate me, right?"

"Nah," I scoff, leading the way off the section of roof and back into the castle. "They're a fairly good bunch of people. Plus, they know not to mess with me or I'll make their lives a living hell."

The rest of the walk back to Gryffindor tower is pretty much silent; I take the route slower than I normally do, giving my friend ample time to learn where everything was.

I introduce her to the Fat Lady, who was overjoyed to meet a new Gryffindor and wished her all the best before requesting the password – _"Banana Fritters,"_ – and letting us inside.

We're met with an applauding crowd; apparently the rest of the "lion pride", as a few of us had dubbed ourselves, had been informed of the change and had been ready and waiting.

Despite the House amusement, the celebration was kept short – it was nearly eleven at night, and the Prefects were big on getting a full nights' sleep before classes tomorrow.

I ushered Rosie upstairs and into the bed just to the right of mine – where Fay Dunbar, my almost-murderer had once slept.

But she, it appeared, was now long-forgotten.


	17. Chapter 17

"Ori, wake up."

"Mmph…"

"Ori, you need to wake up."

"Mmnoo."

"Ori, if you don't wake up _right now_ we're both going to be late and I can't tie my own tie!" This last statement is accompanied by a whack on my shoulder, and I wince as I crack open an eye to see Rosie looming over me.

"What's the abuse for?" I groan, rubbing a hand across my eyes. "Time s'it?"

"Nearly eight," my friend replies nervously. "And you aren't awake, or dressed, and we haven't eaten, and I _still_ need help with my tie."

"Calm down," I yawn, pushing myself into a sitting position and stretching my shoulders. "And give me your tie."

She anxiously holds out the red-and-gold necktie, and stand up to properly tie it around her neck, per the routine that had been established over the past week or so.

"You know, I'm surprised you don't know how to do that yet," I comment off-handedly as Rosie pulls on her outer robes.

"They didn't have ties at Beauxbatons," she shrugs, lacing up her shoes as I grab my clothes and head into the bathroom.

When I emerge a few minutes later, Rosie's fully dressed and waiting by the door, bag in hand. She's tied her hair back with a black-and-orange striped ribbon to celebrate Halloween.

"You're not wearing any hair ribbons or anything?" she asks, sounding disappointed. "It's _Halloween_!"

"I keep my hair short for a reason," I remind her as we make our way down to the Common Room and then out into the corridors. "Besides, my hair's already black, so there's half the decoration right there."

"Whatever," Rosie huffs. "Your loss, not mine."

"Keep telling yourself that," I quip as I push open the doors to the Great Hall.

In accordance to the holiday, the Hall had been decorated from top to bottom; orange and black streamers hung from the ceiling, a variety of jack-o-lanterns floated around the room, and someone had even added a bunch of live bats to flutter around the ceiling.

"I really hope I don't end up covered in bat dung," I whisper to Rosie, who nearly chokes on her laughter.

We quickly spot Ron, Harry, and Hermione – all of which were awake earlier than I was – at the Gryffindor table and take our seats across from the trio.

"You're finally awake," Hermione says by way of greeting. "I thought you'd never get up!"

"Well, I do need my beauty sleep," I retort, grabbing a muffin and stuffing it in my mouth. "Mornin', boys."

Ron grumbles a greeting around a mouthful of eggs, and Harry grins at me. "Morning, Ori. Sleep well?"

"Ha, ha," I mock, but give him a curious look – not only was it Halloween today, but it was the anniversary of Lily and James' deaths. He seemed fine, never too affected by the date, but I usually kept a close eye on him anyway.

The rest of the meal passes quickly, the five of us shoveling down as much food as we possibly could. Around us, the room was abuzz with chatter surrounding the Goblet of Fire and who had put their name in so far and who was _going_ to enter.

"I saw Warrington put his name in earlier," Dean remarks, watching the flickering flames of the Goblet. "Imagine _him_ getting in!"

I give a derisive snort at this. I'd played Quidditch against Warrington last year, and I knew first-hand that the guy was dumber than a sack of rocks; however, what he lacked in smarts, he made up for in pure, brute strength.

"He'd probably die in the first five minutes," I guess dryly.

"We can't have a Slytherin champion!" Harry complains loudly.

"With any luck, you won't," a voice says behind me, and I look over to see Angelica standing behind me, a grin stretching across her face. "Just put my name in yesterday."

"Really?!" I spin around to face her. "Awesome! I didn't know you were seventeen."

"As of last week, yeah," she confirms. "Here's hoping, right?"

"Happy belated birthday," Rosie interjects with a smile. News of her arrival had spread quickly over the last week and a half, and almost everyone in Gryffindor liked her. "I'm sorry we didn't get you anything."

"You didn't know." Angelica dismisses us with a flap of her hand. "I just hope I get picked and not Warrington. Can you imagine?" she asks, shuddering.

"Just don't die. We need you back next year, Captain," I tease.

"Technically, I'm not captain this year," she reminds me glumly, then brightens. "But thanks for the sentiment, Black."

We chat for a few minutes before Angelica leaves, stating she had to get to Potions or Snape would skin her alive. We bid her goodbye and then set off to do the same.

The five of us slip into Greenhouse Two just as Professor Sprout takes her place at the front of the classroom, only giving us a stern look before starting her instruction.

"Bouncing Bulbs," I grumble as I flip through my textbook for feeding and shelter information after Sprout's finished. " _Wonderful."_

"Ah, cheer up. It's not the plant's fault your useless with plants," Rosie mutters absently as she works on freeing the plant, trying to get it to hop from its current pot to a fresh one sitting nearby.

Soon after Rosie came to Hogwarts, I learned that she was left-handed; a rare trait, but not impossible. It certainly made classes interesting – as all of the Professors were right-handed, I had to help her learn the wand movements backward. It had led to a few mistaken Transfigurations over the past week.

"You've literally had one Herbology lesson with me. Stop passing judgment."

"Last week, you managed to kill the Bulb by giving it _water,_ " Rosie argues. "Which, for all intents and purposes, should have _helped_ it."

"I'm telling you, it hated me," I whine, lunging forward to catch the bulb before it can bounce too far and shove it in the fresh soil and cover it up, only for it to keep fighting to get out, spraying dirt all over Rosie and me.

I brush the dirt out of my eyes and settle for crudely securing the bulb with Spellotape; it wouldn't win any high grades, but at least the Bulb was no longer bouncing.

Sure enough, Sprout gives us an Acceptable and me a disappointed look before ushering us to our next class.

After Herbology, we had Care of Magical Creatures, which was disastrous as ever – wrangling a three-foot-long (or three and a half, depending) creature that could either bite your hand off, shoot fire out of its rear, or _explode_ was not fun. At all.

By the time the class limped in for lunch, Seamus Finnigan was covered in bite marks, Lavender Brown's hair was singed, and Ron's robes were torn nearly to shreds.

"Have Professor Hagrid's classes always been like that?" Rosie asks, shocked, as the five of us find spots at the Gryffindor table. At my nod, she only blanches further. "How is that _legal_?!"

"Dumbledore," I shrug. "He and Hagrid go way back, apparently – he's more used to Hagrid's…unique teaching style," I explain wryly.

"Don't you mean Professor Hagrid?" Rosie asks, frowning at us. "Or is he lenient on things like that?"

"We're a bit different," Hermione explains. "The four of us have known Hagrid since we were eleven, he's more of a friend."

"Really?"

"'Course," I grin. "Hey, we should go pay him a visit."

"We were just down there," Ron complains around a mouthful of sandwich, giving me a wide-eyed look. "Have you lost it? We just came from class!"

"And we need to visit him," I insist. "Rosie hasn't met him yet! It's completely necessary.

"I don't really need to…" Rosie trails off, shifting awkwardly in her seat.

I turn to stare at her, a grin slowly stretching over my face. Across the table, the Trio groans.

"You shouldn't have said that," Harry murmurs. "She's set her mind to it now."

"We're going to visit Hagrid!" I declare, standing up and bounding out of the Great Hall, leaving the other four Gryffindors to either follow or be left behind.

They all end up accompanying me across the grounds to the groundskeeper's hut, Ron grumbling all the way.

"Hagrid!" I call, knocking on the front door. There's a shout from within the hut just before the door swings open and a loud, booming voice greets us, and I'm nearly bowled over by a black blur.

I stumble back, grunting under the weight of Hagrid's dog, Fang.

"Hello, you giant oaf," I laugh, rubbing him behind the ears as he proceeds to slobber all over my arms. "Who's a good boy? Can you possibly move? I'd like to get up."

"Fang!" Hagrid scolds, dragging the dog off me and offering a hand. "Sorry, Ori, I don' know why he does tha."

"It's fine," I assure him, wiping my hands on my pants and moving aside to let Rosie in. As soon as she puts a toe over the threshold, however, the dog's entire demeanor changes. The Mastiff stands at his full height and raises his hackles, growling with an intensity that shook the hut around us.

Slightly shocked, I look up, searching Rosie for anything that would agitate Fang in any way.

"I didn't do anything," Rosie whispers, quickly backing away. "I swear."

"Down, Fang!" Hagrid commands sternly. His attempts to dissuade the dog have no effect, and he eventually gives up and grabs a length of rope. "Out in the garden with yeh, then."

"I'll do it," I offer, grabbing the rope and manhandling the dog out Hagrid's back door, wrestling him into the garden and securing him to a fence post, silently wondering why Rosie had sparked such a reaction in the usually gentle – even cowardly – dog. In the three years that I'd known Hagrid, I'd never seen Fang react like that towards _anything._

What was so different about Rosie?

After making sure Fang was secure, I make my way back inside the hut to find Ron, Harry, Hermione, and Rosie all crowded around the groundskeeper's small table with tea and rock cakes. As I sit down, Rosie slides me a cup of tea and a cake.

A comfortable silence falls over the table, only idle chatter being made as we all help ourselves to the tea and cakes – or, as much as we could, seeing as they were still rock-hard. Despite the initial issue with Fang, Hagrid and Rosie seemed to get along well – they were currently discussing creatures found exclusively in France versus those native to England and Scotland.

Go figure.

"So, Hagrid," Hermione begins as soon as all the dishes have been put in the sink. "You've been awfully quiet about this whole Tournament. What do you think of it?"

The half-giant frowns pensively. "It all sounds dangerous, if yer askin' me. I was here for tha first Tournament, and the things the youngins were put through…" He shakes his head, hair flying around his face. "But, 'ey, at leas' yer not goin' teh be in danger this year! With it bein' only seventeen, an' all."

I nod, turning to Harry. "Yeah, you won't get a chance to prove your heroics this year," I tease, although there was an undertone of seriousness – I was honestly glad for the break.

"No dashing tales of bravery for you," Ron adds on, grinning.

"Shame," Harry mutters dryly, giving both of us an exasperated look. "Can't say I'm going to miss battling You-Know-Who this year, though."

"Technically, we didn't do that last year."

"Right, last year we just saved your criminal-escapee father from certain death," Harry replies sarcastically. "Sorry, I forgot."

"Sorry, _what_?!" a voice chokes from my other side – I turn to see Rosie staring at me, wide-eyed. "I'm missing something," she declares.

I nod, snickering lightly. "Just wait till you learn about the Basilisk."

"The-" Rosie nearly chokes on air. "The…Basilisk. Okay. Not a big deal," she murmurs, the pallor of her face belying her words.

I laugh, looking up as a distant bell tolls. "Is that the bell? Has it already been an hour?"

"We're going to be late for Potions," Hermione worries, frantically gathering her bag and hurrying out of the hut, hastily bidding Hagrid goodbye.

I grab my own bag and swing the strap over my shoulder, waving at Hagrid as he begins to prepare for his next class.

As Rosie followed me out onto the grounds, I could hear her murmuring in French – what it was, I didn't know, but I was banking on it not being a compliment.

.

After lunch, the rest of the day passed with a tense buzz hanging in the air – the castle was restless with anticipation, the halls alive with whispers on which name would emerge into the limelight.

"Personally, I think Warrington's the best fit," Malfoy boasted in the Great Hall. "He's stronger than half of Hogwarts combined – what more could a champion need?"

"Some brains would be nice," I retort on my way past the Slytherin table. "But you wouldn't know what that's like, would you, Malfoy?"

Just behind me, Rosie bursts into laughter, having to lean on me just to stay upright at the stricken look on Malfoy's face. Unfortunately, her reaction brings her to his notice, and the Slytherin turns in her direction.

"Oh, so _you're_ Black's little lapdog. I've heard of you…tell me, how much does she pay you? If I were you, I'd run away now – she isn't worth the Galleons."

I glare daggers and go for my wand, but Rosie is quicker, drawing her own wand and pointing it directly at the Slytherin crest on Malfoy's robes.

"I wouldn't be talking, you absolute arse," she snaps – her voice held a deeper, throaty tone; if I didn't know better, I'd say she was a step away from snarling. "Ori is my friend – a _genuine_ friend, although I'm not surprised you don't know what that is. You must've been too busy dyeing your hair when that line was queuing."

In the few minutes since Malfoy began speaking a small crowd had amassed, and with Rosie's retort they burst into chatter, regarding her with trepidation. Even I was slightly awestruck; I had no idea where this outspoken side of Rosie had come from, but I sincerely hoped it was here to stay.

Which, I quickly realized, wouldn't be possible if Rosie kept her wand pointed dangerously close to Malfoy's heart like that.

I reach out to lay a hand on her arm. "Rosie-"

"One more thing," she assures me, aiming her wand again and giving it a small flick. " _Devenir laid!"_

A small jet of light hits Malfoy in the face, and the effect is instantaneous: his skin bubbles and ripples, rearranging his face into the most despicable picture ever, complete with unibrow, nose hair, and crooked teeth.

"Okay, as much as I'd love to see this progress, we should really be leaving," I murmur anxiously, grabbing Rosie's sleeve and tugging her through the dispersing crowd. As soon as we returned to the table, I released her sleeve and let out a delighted cackle.

"You have _got_ to teach me that spell," I practically beg her as we sit down. "What was it?"

"A French secret," she replies coyly, digging into her dinner with a mischievous smirk.

I groan in defeat just as Harry, Ron, and Hermione approach the table, having been caught up in the crowd.

"What just happened? Why does Malfoy look like a goblin?"

"Rosie cursed him," I explain gleefully. "It was brilliant."

"It _looks_ brilliant," Ron agrees eagerly. "Is it gonna wear off?"

"In a week or so," Rosie mutters around a mouthful of shepherd's pie. "Here they come."

The doors to the Great Hall swing open, letting the Durmstrang group – headed by Karkaroff – in, followed soon after by a closely-packed group of Beauxbatons students, Maxime at the head.

"Don't worry," I whisper as Rosie tenses in her seat. "If any of them try anything, I hex them before you can say 'bouillabaisse.'"

"I'm surprised _you_ can say it," she retorts, a small smile spreading across her face nonetheless.

The entire Hall turns its attention forwards as Dumbledore stands, waiting to make sure all eyes were on him before speaking.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he begins kindly. "And a Happy Halloween to you all. I only have a few words to say before the champion selection can begin, so let us get started."

"Firstly, I would like to extend my gratitude to the students and Heads of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons for taking the time to visit our school, as well as my hopes that they have found their stay welcoming thus far."

As Maxime and Karkaroff nod in agreement, Dumbledore continues.

"Secondly, I would like to reinforce to all students of Hogwarts that simply because the Triwizard Tournament is beginning does not mean we should stop treating our guests with the utmost respect," Dumbledore commands sternly. "This competition is meant to serve as more than simply that; you are meant to forge bonds among the magical community that will last a lifetime. Do not forget that, even in the heat of opposition."

I roll my eyes and huff as half the Gryffindor table looks my way – apparently, news of the punching incident had spread.

"Last, but not least, I would like to wish each and every one of the champions that will be selected tonight good luck, and may the odds be forever in his or her favor."

The collective anxiety level in the Great Hall practically skyrockets as Dumbledore steps down from the podium, approaching Goblet of Fire, which had been burning brightly for the last two weeks, and quickly erases the Age Line with a wave of his hand. The Headmaster approaches the Goblet and makes an intricate movement with his wand, muttering an incantation I couldn't hear, and then taking a step back as the blue flames flare up.

With a sweep of his arm, Dumbledore extinguishes all of the candles in the hall, leaving the room only illuminated by the moonlight streaming in through the windows and the light the Goblet threw off, bathing everyone in an eerie silvery-blue light.

"Quiet down, everyone," Dumbledore requests, and the noise level fades to a barely-contained whisper just as the Goblet begins to act up.

The flames flare again, turning a violent shade of red as the Goblet seems to spit out an ember – no, a piece of parchment, that Dumbledore caught and held into the light.

"The Durmstrang Champion is…Viktor Krum!" he announces, and entire rooms bursts into applause, especially the Durmstrang students, all stomping their feet and banging their staffs on the ground.

"No surprise there," Ron cheers excitedly. "He's practically a shoe-in!"

"Not to mention the galleons he'll pull in for Durmstrang if he wins," Hermione interjects with an eye-roll.

At the front of the room, Dumbledore shakes Krum's hand and ushers him into a side room before returning to his spot.

As the last of the applause dies down, Dumbledore regains control of the room just as the Goblet begins to flare once more. A second piece of parchment is spit out, and Dumbledore deftly catches it and reads off the name listed.

"The Beauxbatons Champion is…Fleur Delacour!"

The crowd erupts again, but this time it was more of a mixed reaction: the Great Hall – and mainly its male occupants – burst into rancorous cheers, shouting over one another to be heard as the girl from a few weeks ago, with the blonde hair and the penchant for calling people 'devil spawn' meets Dumbledore at the front of the hall. Meanwhile, her own table looked absolutely devastated – a few girls had even collapsed in sobs.

It's my turn to roll my eyes at them, whispering a few nasty words in Rosie's ear, making her nearly choke on her pumpkin juice.

Once the cheers had finally died down – and the male student body had been snapped out of their daze – Dumbledore returned to the front of the room for the final name.

The Goblet turns red and spits out a third name, Dumbledore plucking it out of the air and glancing down at it.

"The Hogwarts Champion is…Cedric Diggory!"

The Great Hall absolutely _explodes_. Everywhere you looked, people were booing, laughing, shouting, cheering – but nobody beat the Hufflepuff table, which was creating such a roar that I'm sure it could be heard all the way in London. Diggory practically got shoved to the front of the room, where he firmly shook the headmaster's hand before making his way into the other room.

I watch him go, clapping politely; I didn't really know Diggory, other than in Quidditch, but he seemed like a decent. Besides, _anyone_ was better than Warrington.

As the furor finally dies down and Dumbledore gives his closing speech, I distinctly remember thinking, _finally, a year where Harry and I aren't the center of attention. Or in any mortal danger._

But then a hush falls over the entire hall, I look up to see the Goblet turn red a _fourth_ time.

A fourth piece of paper flutters out, and Dumbledore catches it, looking to be in a state of shock.

A deep sense of foreboding settles in my gut as I watched the headmaster – something wasn't right. Something had gone horribly wrong here. And Dumbledore was hesitating, and I wished he would just say the name already-

And then Dumbledore speaks. It's only two words, two measly little words, but I instantly wish they had never, ever been said before.

"Harry Potter."


	18. Chapter 18

**Hey guys - sorry this chapter is so long, it just ran away from me and I couldn't find a good place to split it up, so you've got a 4,000 word chapter. Sorry. Please review and tell me what you think!**

" _Harry Potter."_

"No…no, no, _no_ ," I whimper – all around me, it was as if the world had tilted on its axis. The Great Hall had gone completely silent, and every eye in the room was focused directly on Harry. I only had eyes for Dumbledore himself, silently pleading for there to have been some mistake – maybe he'd read the name wrong. Or maybe this was all a dream, and I'd be waking up any moment.

But five seconds go by, and nothing happens.

Ten seconds.

Thirty.

I wasn't waking up, which meant this was really happening.

"No," I repeat, turning the word into an internal mantra as my stomach churns dangerous. "No, this isn't happening. It _can't_ be happening."

"Ori," a voice says calmly, "you need to let go of Harry. He needs to join the other champions."

"No, I – this can't – he can't-" I stutter quietly, panting frantically – it felt like my lungs couldn't pull in enough oxygen, despite the fact that my necktie was fairly loose around my neck.

"Orissa," the voice from before – Rosie, I think – repeats, a little sterner this time. "Let go."

I look down to find that I had grabbed Harry's arm in a white-knuckle grip, and I couldn't bring myself to release him – not when letting go felt like resigning him to the Triwizard Tournament, even though the rational side of my brain knew there was nothing I could do about that right at this moment.

After I don't reply, Rosie reaches around and pries my fingers off and pulls me away with what I'll later label as 'strength that didn't seem possible.' Right now, none of it seemed to register; it was like I was trying to view the world through a thick fog.

I distantly register Dumbledore ushering Harry away and dismissing everyone else from the Hall. Rosie, upon seeing that I wasn't moving, comes around to kneel in front of me.

I wince at the feeling of her hand on her forehead – why was it so _hot_? The hall was freezing! – as her eyes meet mine. "Ori, look at me. Are you alright? Can you stand?"

I nod numbly, forcing myself up – which turned out to be a bad idea, given how the room suddenly started to spin.

"Okay, so no more standing," Rosie decides, stepping forward to wrap one of my arms around her shoulders and wrap an arm around my torso. "I got you. Come on, up you go."

The next few minutes are a bit of a blur, and the next thing I know, I'm situated in front of the Gryffindor Common Room fireplace, wrapped in a red and gold quilt.

I blink and shake my head to clear the cobwebs, looking around until I spot Rosie, perched on an armchair and occasionally glancing at me over the book she was reading.

"Good morning," she greets upon seeing me watching her. "Glad to see you're with me."

"What happened?"

"You went into shock," she explains, putting the book down and coming over to sit by my side and check my temperature again – her hand didn't feel as hot this time. "Do you remember what happened?"

I pause before nodding. "I was hoping that wasn't real," I admit glumly.

"It was," she confirms gently, an apologetic look on her face. "Harry's name was the fourth name pulled from the Goblet. He's with Dumbledore now, trying to figure out what happened and if he's still part of that contract that Dumbledore mentioned a few weeks ago."

"You mean the one that was binding, and couldn't be backed out of? That one?" I ask sardonically. "Rosie, Harry _can't_ compete. The Tournament…I don't know what it is, but even _Hagrid_ described it as dangerous. It got canceled because of a death toll. With Harry's luck, he'll find the thing that was responsible for killing people and get himself killed."

"You don't know that," the other girl argues. "He could be fine."

"Yeah, and you aren't the one that's followed him for the past three years," I fire back, shrugging the blanket off my shoulders – between it and the fireplace, I was beginning to go from 'pleasantly warm' to 'sweltering'. "He'd better be able to pull out, or I'll march down to Dumbledore's office and start raising hell."

"And I'll be right next to you, if it comes to that," Rosie promises, bringing a grin to my face. "But just wait until Harry comes back before you go storming off. Things might be okay."

I scoff derisively but drop the subject, stretching as I stand up and make my way over to the couch, plopping down on the armchair where Rosie had been sitting and pick up her book. "'The Practical Joker's Handbook: Volume One,'" I read, glancing up and grinning. "Something you want to tell me?"

"I don't know what you mean," she replies innocently, giving me a faux-confused look.

"Right," I snort. "You know, between this and the jab you gave Malfoy earlier, I'm beginning to think-" I'm cut off by the familiar creak of the portrait swinging open, and I look over to see Harry, Ron, and Hermione climb through.

My nearly-forgotten anxiety returns in full force as I leap out of my chair and hurry over to the three, checking Harry for any obvious injuries. "So? What did they say?!"

"It's not good," Harry confesses quietly, enduring my quick physical check before I look back up at him.

"And…that means…"

"It means I'm stuck," Harry bit out, storming over to the couch and sitting down with more force than necessary. "I can't back out. Dumbledore said something about my name being in the Goblet, whether I like it or not, and I can't back out."

"He _said_ that?" Rosie asks incredulously.

"Something along those lines, yeah," Harry grumbles. "Fleur, Krum, Maxime, and Karkaroff all want my head. They accused Dumbledore of favoring his school."

"I would, if I were him," I grumble. "Did they find out how your name got put in the Goblet in the first place?"

Harry shakes his head, and a thought occurs to me and I move so that I'm facing Harry straight-on. "Harry, you…you didn't put your name in, right?"

"No, of course not," he scowls darkly. "I'm not a bloody idiot, Ori. I wouldn't have been able to get past the Age Line."

"Alright, I just had to ask," I assure him calmly before looking over at Rosie, who had moved off to the side. "I think I'm gonna take you up on that offer you made earlier."

"Of course," she nods, a wicked grin spreading across Rosie's face as she straightens her tie and smooths her robes.

"What are you up to now?" Hermione asks exasperatedly. "Please don't go cause trouble, that's the last thing we need right now."

"I'm not," I promise over my shoulder as I approach the portrait hole, holding it open for Rosie to climb through before waving to Hermione and following her through.

"Come on," I whisper in the empty corridor. "We need to be quick, I'd rather get to Dumbledore before he makes any big decisions regarding the Tournament."

"Ditto, but I'm not sure how we're going to do that," Rosie replies in the same tone.

"I do. I think there's a passage here…" I stop in front of a tapestry depicting a crowd of drunk monks and tap it with my wand in a predetermined pattern – tap, tap, pause, tap – and the tapestry suddenly rolls up to reveal a small-ish hole in the castle wall.

"Whoa," Rosie breaths. "That's _brilliant._ Where'd you learn how to do that?"

"My dad and his friends were known for sneaking around in their Hogwarts days," I explain as I duck through the low hole and light the tip of my wand to illuminate the darkness. "Over summer, he showed me a few of his old tricks."

"Isn't your father on the run somewhere in the Southern Hemisphere right now?" Rosie asks suspiciously as she too lights her wand, coughing at the dust we've stirred up.

"Officially, yes." I side-eye her. "Botswana, actually. You must've misheard me."

"Of course, my mistake," she replies sarcastically, peering down the narrow corridor, which held nothing but darkness. "Are you sure this is the way?"

"It should get us close enough to the Headmaster's office, yes. Probably, anyway."

" _Probably_?!"

"Aw, come on," I tease, gently jabbing her in the ribs. "Are you _scared?_ "

Rosie looks at me for a moment, the wandlight casting strange shadows on her face, before she huffs. "No," she declares with absolute certainty. "Let's go."

I nod and slip into the lead, brushing aside some cobwebs as I went.

The passageway does end up depositing us just down the hallway from Dumbledore's gargoyle, although we were covered in more dust and cobwebs than it was worth. After quickly Scourgifying each other, Rosie and I approach the gargoyle with caution.

"I don't suppose you know the password?" she asks hopefully.

I shake my head but narrow my eyes at the statue in consideration. "It's usually a sweet, so…Chocolate Frogs."

Nothing happens.

"Fizzing Whisbees?" Rosie tries, with no success. "Fudge Flies, Ice Mice, uh, Jelly Slugs…"

"Pixie Puffs, Sugar Quill, Lemon Drops-"

The gargoyle swings open, and I mutter a swear word under my breath. "I should've known it'd be those."

Rosie doesn't respond, marching past me and straight up the staircase to the door to the office, behind which a voice calmly calls out, "Enter."

I step into Dumbledore's office to find the man himself sitting at his desk, motioning for Rosie and I to take a seat. "Miss Black, Miss McKinnon. To what do I owe your unexpected visit?"

"I think you know, sir," I sigh, sinking into my seat. "About the Tournament…"

"There's nothing that can be done, I'm afraid. Harry's place in the competition has been sealed."

"He's _fourteen_!" I argue shrilly. "Delacour, Krum, and Diggory are all _at least_ seventeen-"

"Delacour turned seventeen last December," Rosie injects calmly.

"-yes, Rosie, thank you. And Harry's fourteen! It's unfair and it's not _safe_ ," I bite out.

"Harry is a student at Hogwarts," Rosie adds. "Ergo, _your_ student. He's your responsibility and you're putting him in great danger, sir."

"Ladies, I understand your distress, but-"

"But then again," I continue, speaking over the headmaster, "you'd know all about that, wouldn't you, sir? I mean, first year it was a possessed teacher, then a goddamn _Basilisk_ second year, and then you've got last year where a presumed mass-murderer was able to break into the school…what, three times? He threated a student with a knife."

"When I said I wanted an explanation, that's not what I meant!" Rosie hisses, barely audible.

"And now someone's gotten Harry into a deadly competition," I continue, quieter. "I'm not blaming you, sir – not for that, anyway, although I do intend to find out who _is_ responsible and make sure they don't live to do so again," I vow, a deadly serious tone to my voice.

"And I'll help her," Rosie adds in the same tone, meeting Dumbledore's eyes – for a split second, I think something flashes between them, but it's gone before I can be sure.

"However," I continue, "I don't like the position that this puts me in as Harry's friend. Harry is stuck in a situation where he could very likely die, and I can't save him if that were to happen. So, I tried to put faith in the adults, and all you give me is 'there is nothing that can be done,'" I mock brutally. "And then you _wonder_ why I have trust issues."

"She's got a point, sir," Rosie points out. "How are we supposed to trust you to help Harry if you – a very powerful wizard, arguably the most powerful in England – can't find a way to undo magic done by a cup, flaming or otherwise. I don't care how old the magic may be, there's always a way to undo it."

"I'm afraid you're mistaken, Ms. McKinnon," Dumbledore replies sadly but with a stern edge. "Do not mistake my inactivity for inability. If there was a way to release Mr. Potter from his contract, I assure you that it would have been found as quickly as possible. Nevertheless, I give you my word that I will continue to search for any clauses in the contract that may repair our situation."

"As will we," I challenge. "This isn't going to be swept under the rug, sir, I hope you know that."

" _We_ are not going to forget this," Rosie promises, placing special emphasis on the fact that we were standing together on the matter. "But…thank you, sir. I'm sorry we were so harsh."

"I'm not."

"It's quite alright," Dumbledore says dismissively, ignoring me completely. "Your words were born of fear, not anger, which happens to the best of us," I roll my eyes, but Dumbledore ignores me once again. "Now, I trust you two will find your way back to Gryffindor tower without any trouble? It is getting quite close to curfew, I'm afraid."

"Yes, sir," I nod, face stony even as my stomach sinks – this meeting had achieved absolutely nothing, and Harry was still stuck in the Tournament. I push myself out of my chair, giving Dumbledore a curt nod before heading for the door.

Only at the base of the staircase do I finally let the tension leak out of my frame, anger flooding in on its tail. I whirl around a kick the base of the wall as hard as I could, yelping at the burst of pain that rockets up my shin.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," Rosie admonishes gently. "What were you expecting, exactly? For Dumbledore to just _magically_ fix everything?"

"Was that a pun? That was a pun," I realize gleefully before sobering again with a sigh. "I don't know, I just thought he'd have some sort of solution. We – I – will either have to get Harry out before the competition starts or, barring that, find a way to get him out alive."

"We," Rosie corrects. "I'm helping."

"Are you sure?" I ask uneasily as we start back down the corridor. "You don't have to. I'd understand if you didn't want to, I mean…"

"You can't get rid of me," she interrupts with a small smile. "Ori, you're possibly the best friend I've ever had, so I'm not going to turn tail because one of your friends happens to be in a sticky spot. I'm going to help."

I watch her for a long moment before nodding silently, because I didn't think I could find the words to reply.

Our trek back to the Common Room is fairly silent from there, both of us content to leave the other to her own thoughts, no matter how troubling they may be. Just as I climb through the portrait hole, the silence is disrupted by the sound of shouting, and I look up to see a scene of chaos.

In the middle of the Common Room, Harry and Ron – who had been suspiciously absent – were locked in a shouting match, their faces red as the latter's hair as they screamed, pointing fingers and gesturing wildly. Hermione was trying her best to step between them, but she had to raise her voice just to be heard, which wasn't helping the noise levels at all.

Thankfully, the rest of the room was nearly empty; everyone else must've sensed the oncoming storm and fled like rats on a sinking ship.

"I leave them alone for five minutes and the world falls apart," I complain to no one in particular. "Guys! Shut up for a second!"

My words have no effect; if anything, the boys only get angrier – Ron moves like he's about to lunge at Harry, and I decide enough is enough, stepping between Harry and Ron and grabbing a fistful of their shirts, pushing them apart as hard as I could.

"What the bloody hell is going on here?" I demand. "What has gotten into the two of you?"

"Ron thinks I put my name in," Harry spits out, glaring over my head. "Tell him to stop being a bloody prick."

" _Harry_ is a selfish prat," Ron returns, spitting fire. "I know you put your name in, _Potter_ , why won't you just admit it? But then again, why would you tell me – after all, I'm just Harry Potter's dumb sidekick, the guy you use to make yourself look better."

"Ron!" I protest vehemently. "That's not how it is and you know it. Just calm down for a second-"

"And you!" the angry redhead continues, focusing on me this time. "You're just as bad! You're practically his attack dog and not much else! You think you're so high-and-mighty just 'cause your dad's got money-"

"Back off," I snap, planting my hands on his chest and shoving him backward. "Harry didn't put his name in the Goblet and you damn well know that."

"Do you really believe that?" Ron challenges. "It wouldn't be that unrealistic, you know; terrific _Potter_ has to have all the glory for himself. Your parents would be proud."

The room goes silent for a moment, no one daring to do so much as move, until-

 _THWACK._

My fist slammed into Ron Weasley's jaw hard enough to knock him off his feet.

"How dare you," I snarl, standing over his prone figure as he clutches his jaw. "How _dare you,_ Ronald Weasley?! I don't know what's gotten into you, but the Ron Weasley I knew would have _never_ said that." I take a step back, glaring at him. "Stay the hell away from me."

I turn on my heel and stalk back over to where Rosie had dragged Harry, physically restraining him from attacking Ron while Hermione watched everything nervously, looking horribly torn between her two friends.

I run a hand over my face as I look at my godbrother. "You okay?" I ask lowly.

Harry just turns to stare at me. I suppose that question required no answer; I wouldn't be okay either.

Sighing, I look over at the old grandfather clock in the corner of the Common Room. "It's nearly ten o'clock, you should get to bed, Harry. I think you'll need your wits tomorrow."

"What about you?" he asks concernedly. "Ori, after the day you've had-"

"I'll be fine," I murmur dismissively, accompanying the sentiment with a wave of my hand. "Can I borrow your Invisibility Cloak, though?"

Harry nods and quickly leaves the room, returning not a minute later with the familiar bundle of shimmery fabric in hand. "Are you sure you'll be alright?"

"Fine," I promise, stepping forward to wrap him in a brief hug before turning to poke Rosie in the arm. "You should get some rest too."

"But I didn't-" she begins to protest, but the words are cut off by a large yawn.

I give a triumphant smirk. "Yeah, see. Go on, you need your beauty sleep," I tease, nudging her towards the staircase.

Rosie grumbles with no real heat and trudging off to the dorms, Harry doing the same not long after.

With the Common Room finally empty, I turn and make my way out of the portrait hole, emerging into a dark, quiet corridor.

Wrapping the Cloak securely around my shoulders, I silently wonder where to go – everyone was either asleep or in their Common Room, so the entire castle was essentially mine to explore if I so wished. However, given the events that had taken place tonight, I wasn't feeling particularly adventurous; I was tired, both mentally and physically, and all I wanted was food and – embarrassingly enough – my dad.

I stop dead in my tracks as a thought bubbles to the surface of my mind: Dad didn't know about Harry's name being pulled from the Goblet – unless Harry himself had written him, that is, but it had barely been two hours since the ceremony and Harry had been occupied the entire time, so the possibility of him getting a chance to write a letter was slim.

Mind made up on what I had to do, I duck back into the Common Room to grab a few items and make sure the Cloak was secure before taking off in the direction of the owlery.

The small tower on the northern side of the castle was as quiet as the rest of the castle, the only noise being the soft rustling of feathers and the crunching of rodent skeletons under my feet.

Lighting my wand but holding it down so as to disrupt as few owls as possible, I scan the roosts for my owl. I eventually find the familiar black and grey plumage in a cubby just above my head, sleepy amber eyes blinking open to investigate what the disturbance was.

"Hello, girl," I murmur quietly. "Sorry to disturb you, but I could use your help." I stick my hand in my pocket and pick out an owl treat, holding it up as both an incentive and a peace offering. "Please?"

With the soft fluttering of wings, Tyche comes down to perch on my arm, nabbing the treat and gobbling it down in seconds.

"You're going to get fat if you keep eating like that," I admonish gently, carrying the owl over to one of the large, arched windows the owlrey sported. There wasn't any glass for safety reasons, but I take a seat on the windowsill anyways, leaning back against the side and sprawling one leg out in front of me, the other just brushing the floor.

Tyche happily perches on my foot, making an impatient popping noise with her beak.

"Just give me a moment," I mutter, pulling the shrunken parchment and quill I'd brought with me from my pocket and quickly restoring both to full size and beginning to write.

 _Padfoot_ , I begin,

 _Something's gone wrong at Hogwarts. Harry is in danger – again._

 _I don't know how much attention you've been paying to the calendar, but tonight was the ceremony to choose the Triwizard Champions from the Goblet of Fire. At first, it went well – Viktor Krum (yes,_ _the_ _Viktor Krum, he's still in school) got chosen for Durmstrang, and a girl named Fleur Delacour – I don't like her very much – got chosen for Beauxbatons, and then a Hufflepuff named Cedric Diggory got chosen for Hogwarts._

 _And then Harry's name came out of the Goblet. I don't know how – Harry swears up and down that he didn't put his name in or have someone do it for him, but so far, Dumbledore hasn't found any other way for his name to have been entered yet. And speaking of Dumbledore, he says that the magical contract binding Harry to the competition is final – he has to compete, whether he likes it or not._

 _To be honest, I'm scared. There's a reason the Tournament was banned before, and even Hagrid thinks it's dangerous. Please tell me you can help in some way._

 _Really wishing you were here,_

 _Pup._

I finish writing and lift my quill, checking the letter over before nodding and grabbing my wand and casting two spells – a drying spell on the parchment, and a shrinking spell on the quill, sticking the latter my pocket before I roll up the parchment and beckon Tyche closer.

I quickly tie the parchment with a length of twine, making sure it was securely attached to the owl's foot before giving her the go-ahead.

Tyche takes off with a soft coo, and I watch her disappear into the starless night before turning to leave the owlrey and go back to Gryffindor tower, where I would hopefully get a little sleep tonight.

I had the feeling I'd need it over the next few days.


End file.
